Cogewea, the Half-Blood by Mourning Dove

To love the softest hearts are prone, / But such can ne'er be all his own; / Too timid in his woes to share, / Too meet to meet, or brave despair; / And sterner hearts alone may feel / The wound that time can never heal. / The Giaour

Two weeks had passed since the incident of Densmore's riding; everything drifting along the usual channel. The hot July days were beginning to heat the great Clay Banks of the Pend d'Oreille, but under the dark pines lining its shore, were found spots cooled by the breeze from the stream. It was here that the injured man was spending the morning alone with a book. Cogewea, his nurse, had gone for a ride, an errand to a distant neighbor's. He had exhausted an hour in a vain attempt at becoming interested in the pages that he turned to no purpose.