Late in the afternoon, Rhoda woke. Kut-le stood beside her. His expression was half eager, half tender.
"How do you feel now?" he asked.
"Quite well," answered Rhoda. "Will you call Marie? I want to dress."
"You must rest in bed today," replied the Indian. "Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to get up."
Rhoda looked at the young man with irritation.
"Can't you learn that I am not a squaw? That it maddens me to be ordered about? That every time you do you alienate me more, if possible?"
"You do foolish stunts," said Kut-le calmly, "and I have to put you right."
Rhoda moaned.
"Oh, how long, how long must I endure this! How could they be so stupid as to let you slip through their fingers so!"
Kut-le's mouth became a narrow seam.
"As soon as I can get you into the Sierra Madre, I shall marry you. You are practically a well woman now. But I am not going to hurry overmuch. You are going to love me first and you are going to love this life first. Then we will go to Paris until the storm has passed."
Rhoda did not seem to hear him. She tossed her arms restlessly.
"Please send Marie to me," she said finally. "You will permit me to eat something perhaps?"
Kut-le left the room at once. In a short time he returned with Marie, who bore a steaming bowl which he himself flanked with a dish of luscious melon. The woman propped Rhoda adroitly to a sitting position and Kut-le gravely balanced the bowl against the girl's knees. The stew which the bowl contained was delicious, and Rhoda ate it to the last drop. She ate in silence, while Kut-le watched her with unspeakable longing in his eyes. The room was almost dark when the simple meal was finished. Marie brightened the fire and smoothed Rhoda's blankets.
"Kut-le go now," said the Pueblo woman. "You rest. In morning, Marie bring white squaw some clothes."
Rhoda was glad to pillow her head on her arm but it was long before she slept. She tried to piece together her faint and distorted recollection of the occurrences since the morning when the mesa had risen through the dawn. But her only clear picture was of John DeWitt's wild face as she disappeared into the fissure. She recalled its look of agony and sobbed a little to herself as she realized what torture he and the Newmans must have endured since her disappearance. And yet she was very hopeful. If her friends could come as close to her as they did before the mesa, they must be learning Kut-le's methods. Surely the next time luck would not play so well for the Indian.