In a second all the care, the hollow love he had given me
since my childhood, were as things that never existed. I hated that
old mission priest as I hated his white man's hell. I hated his
long, white hair; I hated his thin, white hands; I hated his body,
his soul, his voice, his black book--oh, how I hated the very
atmosphere of him.
Laurence sat motionless, his face buried in his hands, but the old
man continued, "No, no; not the child of that pagan mother; you
can't trust her, my son. What would you do with a wife who might any
day break from you to return to her prairies and her buckskins? _You
can't trust her_." His eyes grew smaller, more glittering, more
fascinating then, and leaning with an odd, secret sort of movement
towards Laurence, he almost whispered, "Think of her silent ways,
her noiseless step; the girl glides about like an apparition; her
quick fingers, her wild longings--I don't know why, but with all my
fondness for her, she reminds me sometimes of a strange--_snake_."
Laurence shuddered, lifted his face, and said hoarsely: "You're
right, uncle; perhaps I'd better not; I'll go away, I'll forget her,
and then--well, then--yes, you are right, it _is_ a different thing
to marry one of them.
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