"Well, then, Miss Rhoda, will you marry me?"

Rhoda raised her head in speechless amazement.

Kut-le's glowing eyes contracted.

"You are not surprised!" he exclaimed a little fiercely, "You must have
seen how it has been with me ever since you came. And you have been
so--so bully to me!"

Rhoda looked helplessly into the young man's face. She was so fragile
that she seemed but an evanescent part of the moonlight.

"But," she said slowly, "you must know that this is impossible. I
couldn't think of marrying you, Kut-le!"

There was a moment's silence. An owl called from the desert. The
night wind swept from the fragrant orchard. When he spoke again,
Kut-le's voice was husky.

"Is it because I am an Indian?"

"Yes," answered Rhoda, "partly. But I don't love you, anyhow."

"But," eagerly, "if you did love me, would my being an Indian make any
difference? Isn't my blood pure? Isn't it old?"

Rhoda stood still. The pain in Kut-le's voice was piercing through to
the shadow world in which she lived. Her voice was troubled.