"With part of your declaration I cannot agree. A maiden with such
charms as yours is not left long to sigh for a lover. Believe me, I
should like to be that bird, to whom you said you would, if you
could, offer love and companionship."
The stranger made no disguise of his admiration for the beautiful
girl of the plains. He stepped up by her side, and was about to take
her hand after delivering himself of this gallant speech, but she
quickly drew it away. Then, turning to his companion, "We must sup before leaving this settlement, and we shall accompany
this bonny maiden home. Go you and fetch the horses; Mademoiselle and
myself shall walk together." The other did as he was directed, and
the stranger and the songstress took their way along a little grassy
path. The ravishing beauty of the girl was more than the amorously-
disposed stranger could resist, and suddenly stretching out his arms,
he sought to kiss her. But the soft-eyed fawn of the desert soon
showed herself in the guise of a petit bete sauvage. With an angry
scream, she bounded away from his grasp.
"How do you dare take this liberty with me, Monsieur," she said, her
eyes kindled with anger and hurt pride. "You first meanly come and
intrude upon my privacy; next you must turn what knowledge you gain
by acting spy and eavesdropper, into a means of offering me insult.
You have heard me say that I had no lover to sigh for me. I spoke the
truth: I have no such lover. But you I will not accept as one." And
turning with flushed cheek and gleaming eyes, she entered a cosy,
clean-kept cottage. But she soon reflected that she had been guilty of
an inhospitable act in not asking the strangers to enter. Suddenly
turning, she walked rapidly back, and overtook the crest-fallen wooer
and his companion, and said in a voice from which every trace of her
late anger had disappeared.
"Entrez, Messieurs."
The man's countenance speedily lost its gloom, and, respectfully
touching his hat, he said: "Oui, Mademoiselle, avec le plus grand plaisir." Tripping lightly
ahead she announced the two strangers, and then returned, going to
the bars where the cows were lowing, waiting to be milked. The
persistent stranger had not, by any means, made up his mind to desist
in his wooing.
"The colt shies," he murmured, "when she first sees the halter.
Presently, she becomes tractable enough." Then, while he sat waiting
for the evening meal, blithely through the hush of the exquisite
evening came the voice of the girl. She was singing from La Claire
Fontaine.