And so the girl’s manner was equally distant when she replied; in fact, it was even colder, for it was fraught with bitterness.
“Thandar owed nothing to Nadara,” she said, “and though it matters not at all, it is only fair to say that the stone that struck you as you battled in the glade was intended for Korth.”
Waldo’s face brightened. A load that he had not realized lay there was lifted from his heart.
“You did not want to hurt me, then?” he cried.
“Why should I want to hurt you?” returned the girl.
“I thought”—and here Waldo spoiled the fair start they had made at a reconciliation—“I thought,” he said, “that you were angry because I ran away from you after we had come to your village that time, months ago.”
Nadara’s head went high and she laughed aloud.
“I angry? I was surprised that you did not come to the village, but after an hour I had forgotten the matter—it was with difficulty that I recognized you when I next saw you, so utterly had the occurrence departed from my thoughts.”
Waldo wondered why he should feel such humiliation at this frank avowal. Of what moment to him was this girl’s estimation of him? Why did he feel a flush suffuse his face at the knowledge that he was of so little moment to her that she had entirely forgotten him within a few months?
Waldo was mortified and angry. He changed the subject brusquely; hereafter he should eschew personalities.
“Let us find a cave at a distance from the dead man,” he said, “and there we may rest until you are ready to attempt the return journey.”
“I am ready now,” replied Nadara; “nor do I need or desire your company. I can return alone, as I came.”
“No,” remonstrated Waldo doggedly; “I shall go with you whether you wish it or not. I shall see you safely with your father. I promised him.”
Nadara had been delighted with the first clause of his reply, but when it became evident that his only desire to return with her was to fulfil a promise made her father she became furious, though she was careful not to let him see it.
“Very well,” she replied; “you may come if you wish, though it is neither necessary nor as I would have it. I prefer being alone.”
“I shall not force my company upon you,” said Waldo haughtily. “I can follow a few paces behind you.”
There was an injured air in his last words which did not escape the girl. She wondered if he really deserved the harsh attitude she had maintained.
They found a cave a half-mile down the valley, where they took up their quarters against the time that Waldo should be rested, for the girl insisted that she was fully able to commence the return journey at once.
The man knew better, and so he let her have it that the delay was on his account rather than hers, for he doubted her ability to cope with the hardships of the long journey without an interval for recuperation.
The next morning found them both rested and in better spirits, so that there was no return to their acrimonious encounter of the previous day.
As they walked out toward the forest that lay down the valley in the direction of the ocean Waldo dropped a few paces behind the girl in polite deference to her expressed wish of the day before.
As he walked he watched the graceful movements of her lithe figure and the lines of her clear-cut profile as she turned her head this way and that in search of food.
How beautiful she was! It was incredible that this wild cave girl should have greater beauty and a more regal carriage than the queens and beauties of civilization, and yet Waldo was forced to admit that he had never even dreamed, much less seen, such absolute physical perfection.
He wished that he could say as much for her disposition; that was atrocious. It was unbelievable that such a wondrous exterior could harbor so much ingratitude and coldness.
Presently they came among the trees where the ripe fruit hung, and as Waldo climbed nimbly among the branches and tossed the most luscious down to her, the girl, in her turn, watched him.
She noted more closely the marvelous change that a few months had wrought. She had thought him wonderful before, but now he was a very god. She did not think just this, for she knew nothing of gods—other than the demons that were supposed to enter the bodies of the sick; but she thought of him as some superior creature, and then she ceased to feel aggrieved that he should care so little for her.
He was not a man—he was something more than a man, and she had been very wicked to have treated him so shamefully. She would make amends.
So she tried to be more kind thereafter, though there still remained a trace of aloofness.
Together they sat upon the turf and ate their fruit, and as they ate they talked a little, for it is difficult for two young people to harbor animosity for a great time, especially when there is none other for them to talk to.
“When you have returned with me to my father, Thandar,” the girl asked, “where shall you go then?”
“I shall return to the sea where I may watch for a ship to take me back to my own land,” he replied.
“I have seen but one ship in all my life,” said Nadara, “and that was years ago. It was when we lived close by the big water that it stopped a long way from shore and sent many smaller boats to land.
“There were many men in the boats, and when they landed, my father and mother took me far into the forest away from the sea, and there we stayed for many days until the strangers had sailed. They wandered up and down the coast and came back into the forests and the
