"Ah! stranger, that's another o' the konsequences o' doin' what aint right. Since the day I gin her that kiss, she'd niver let me alone, but used to bother me every time I met her in the woods; an' would a come arter me to my own cabin, if it hadn't been for the dogs, that wud tar an Injun to pieces. She war afeerd o' them but not o' me, no matter how I thraitened her. I war so angry wi' her, for what had happened--though arter all, 'twar more my fault than hern--but I war so vexed wi' her about the ill-luck, that I used to keep out o' her way as well as I could, an' didn't speak to her for a long time. She got riled 'bout that, an' thraitened revenge; an' one night, as I war comin' from Swampville, 'bout this time--only 'twar as dark as a pot o' pitch--I war jest ridin' out into this very gleed, when all o' a suddint my ole hoss gin a jump forrard, an I feeled somethin' prick me from behind. 'Twar the stab o' some sort o' a knife, that cut me a leetle above the hip, an' made me bleed like a buck. I know'd who did it; tho' not that night--for it war so dark among the bushes, I couldn't see a steim. But I kim back in the mornin', and seed tracks. They war the tracks o' a mocassin. I know'd 'em to be hern." "Su-wa-nee's tracks?" "Sartin. I know'd 'em well enough, as I'd often seed her tracks through the crik bottom." "Did you take no steps to punish her?" "Well--no--I didn't." "How is that? I think it would have been prudent of you to have done something--if only to prevent a recurrence of the danger." "Well, stranger! to tell truth, I war a leetle ashamed o' the whole bisness. Had it been a man, I'd a punished _him_; but they _do_ say the girl's in love wi' me, arter her Injun way; an' I didn't like to be revengeful. Besides it war mostly my own fault: I had no bisness to a fooled wi' her." "And you think she will not trouble you again?" "I don know about that, arter what's happened the night. She's gone away thraitnin' agin. I did think she'd gin up the notion o' revenge: for she know'd I'd found out that 'twar her that stabbed me. I told her so, the next time I seed her; an' she 'peared pleased 'bout my not havin' her ta'en up. She said it war generous of the White Eagle-- that's the name her people gies me--for thar's a gang o' them still livin' down the crik. She gin me a sort of promise she wouldn't trouble me agin; but I warn't sure o' her. That's the reezun, stranger, I didn't want ye to go fur away." "I think it would be prudent in you to keep well on your guard. This redskin appears to be rather an unreflecting damsel; and, from what you have told me, a dangerous one. She certainly has a strange way of showing her affection; but it must be confessed, you gave her some provocation; and as the poet says, `Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.'" "That's true, stranger!"