The young man bowed with a grace that was natural and pleasing, lifting his hat as he did so.
Impulsively Inza held out her gloved hand.
“Mr. Swiftwing,” she said, “I am awfully glad to know you, and, oh! I want to thank you so much for what you just did! That—that drunken—man nearly scared me to death.”
“Why didn’t you say that drunken Indian, as you started to, Miss Burrage?” asked Swiftwing, with something like a bitter smile. “White men never get drunk, I believe!”
“Goodness, yes they do!” exclaimed Miss Abigail; “but not all of them get drunk. All Indians get drunk.”
“Not all of them, madam—I beg your pardon. I have never tasted a drop of liquor in my life.”
“You—you? Why—why—you are—are not——”
“Miss Gale,” said Frank, “allow me to introduce Mr. Swiftwing, who is a full-blooded Indian and a student at the school in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.”
The spinster looked astonished, nearly dropping her parasol.
“Gracious me!” she fluttered. “Him an Indian? Why, he’s dressed decent, and I’d never suspected it if you hadn’t said so. My, my! what a surprise!”