“In my country we do not take our wives in any such way, nor shall I take you thus. We must be married properly, according to the customs and laws of civilization.”
Nadara made no reply. To her it seemed that Thandar must care very little for her—that was about the only explanation she could put upon his strange behavior. It made her sad. And then the other women would laugh at her—of that she was quite certain, and that, too, made her feel very badly—they would see that Thandar did not want her.
The old man, lying upon his scant bed of matted, filthy grasses, had heard the conversation. He was as much at sea as Nadara. At last he spoke—very feebly now, for rapidly he was nearing dissolution.
“I am a very old man,” he said to Thandar. “I have not long to live. Before I die I should like to know that Nadara has a mate who will protect her. I love her, though—” He hesitated.
“Though what?” asked Thandar.
“I have never told,” whispered the old fellow. “My mate would not let me, but now that I am about to die it can do no harm. Nadara is not my daughter.”
The girl sprang to her feet.
“Not your daughter?” “Then who am I?”
