Swiftwing’s face was far from expressionless, for various emotions were depicted upon it as he heard the words of the three beyond the mesquite. He betrayed rage, pride and gratitude, and his broad chest arose and fell tumultuously.
When Carver strolled on, Frank and Inza turned about and retraced their steps toward the Pueblo. As they departed, the unseen Indian heard Inza say:
“I will not believe John Swiftwing is a bad Indian! He has a noble face, and you told me, Frank, that you thought him a fine fellow.”
“I did,” said Merry, “but I know very little of him. Physically, he is a marvel, which is rather strange, as he is a Pueblo Indian, and they are not remarkable for their physical development. But I must confess that Carver’s opinion of all Indians seems to be the general belief of those who associate with them, and know them best.”
“I don’t want to believe it, and I am not going to believe it!”
Swiftwing could hear no more. He had heard quite enough.
“She is a fair white dove!” came from his lips in a murmur that was like liquid music. “She believes there may be some good in an Indian.”
Then he bowed his head, and for a long time he stood there motionless as an image of stone. The beating of the drums at the Pueblo aroused him.
His face was heavy with something that seemed a sullen look of despair.
“The white men say all Indians are bad. Carver says all the education I may receive will not change my nature—I shall be an Indian still. I believe he is right! It is useless for the red man to try to be like the white man. God made them in different molds. He spoke truly when he said the heart remained the same for all of any outward change. Once more I am back here with my people, and I feel that I am like them. What is all my education? What does it amount to? The white man looks on me with scorn. But for the White Dove there would be no more courage left in my heart. I would give it all up, and go back to live with my people. After all, when I have finished at school, that is what I will do.”