But he did not dare. Love had throned her immeasurably above him. Scarcely he dared look at her as she rode beside him in the white moonlight, swaying to the rhythm of her horse’s pace, mystic, strange--no woodland boy, no “sweet, gentle lady,” no Indian maid--but all of these at once, all and more, a woman, his woman, his mate, born for him, foreordained for him since the first dawn that had silvered the world. Speechless he rode on, glancing at her from sidelong eyes. Alagwa, too, was silent, waiting. This was her hour, and she knew it. But he must tell her--tell her what she already knew. Not one sweet word of the telling would she spare him. And the worse he boggled the telling the more she would love him. Love--woman’s love--pardons all but silence. At last Jack found his tongue. He spoke hurriedly, gaspingly, trying to hide the ferment of his soul. “The war here is over,” he said. “I did not stay to see the end of the battle, but I know the British power in the west is shattered. Most of the army will go home. And we will go to Alabama. Father is waiting to welcome you. I wrote him of you and he wrote me that if I did not bring you with me I might stay away myself. You will like father. He is fierce, like yourself, and tender-hearted, too--like yourself. Ah! Yes! You will like him and you will like Alabama. Alabama! I told you once what the word meant. It’s Creek: a-la-ba-ma, here we rest. There we will rest. Later we will go to France to see your inheritance--yours no more. Father writes that Napoleon has confiscated the Telfair estates. But we can spare them. Cato will go with us--father writes that the two girls he humbugged have husbands of their own and will not trouble him, and that the third--the one he is fond of--is waiting for him. Rogers and Fantine will make a match of it, I think. He says now that he likes to hear women’s talk. Tecumseh--I do not know what his fate may be. But he swore he would win or leave his bones on the field today--and he did not win. I--I have read that letter; there was nothing in it--nothing. I fainted because of my illness and not because of anything I read.” Jack’s voice died. He had run through his budget of news without broaching the subject that lay so near his heart. Alagwa did not help him. Silently she waited. The night was wearing on. The moon was sinking into the west. Its fairy sheen lingered faintly on the trees and the grass and dusty road that stretched through the dew-wet fields like a band of silver. High above, the multitudinous stars blazed in the firmament. Silence reigned; no cry of bird or beast sounded through the night; even the sound of the horses’ hoofs was muffled in the soft dust. Like spirits the two rode on through the enchanted silence.