Hay's patience had been exhausted. He had firmly refused to contribute
another cent to settle Moreau's scrapes, even though he was a distant
kinsman of his wife, and they both were fond of his little sister Fawn
Eyes. It had never occurred to Mrs. Hay that Nan could steal from or
plot against her benefactors, but that was before she dreamed that
Nanette had become the Indian's wife. After that, anything might happen.
"If she could do _that_ for love of Moreau," said she, "there was
nothing she could not do."
And it would seem there was little short of deliberate murder she had
not done for her Sioux lover, who had rewarded her utter self-sacrifice
by a savage blow with a revolver butt. "Poor Nanette!" sobbed Mrs. Hay,
and "Poor Nanette!" said all Fort Frayne, their distrust of her buried
and forgotten as she lay, refusing herself to everyone; starving herself
in dull, desperate misery in her lonely room. Even grim old "Black
Bill," whom she had recognized at once,--Bill, who had been the first to
confirm Blake's suspicions as to her identity,--had pity and compassion
for her. "It's the way of the blood," said Blake. "She is
"'Bred out of that bloody strain
That haunted us in our familiar paths.
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