“Neah. Tekasenthos!” she insisted.
“Why?”
“You do not love me,” she remarked, kicking off one ankle moccasin.
“Kenonwea-sasita-ha-wiyo, chetenaha!” I said, laughing.
“Akasita? Katontats. But is that all of me you love?”
“The other one also.”
“The other one also.”
“Neah-wenh-a, O Loskiel. I shall presently slay you and go to sleep.”
There fell a silence, then:
“Do you not know in your heart how it is with me?” I said unsteadily.
