“Yes! I think more of him than any one else.”
“I would be a fool to give you up to him now. I would be a fool to take you back to him when I have you safe. If I did that, I would not be an Indian. I love you.”
She continued to entreat him to take her back, and her words were wonderfully eloquent. He stood like an image of stone, his brow dark, his arms folded, looking down at her. She grew weak with fear, for she could see nothing of relenting in his face. Tears rained down her cheeks and she wrung her hands. He turned away.
“Give me time to think,” he said.
For a long time he stood there, looking down upon the plain, moveless as a thing inanimate. She prayed that his heart might be softened.
At last he turned and held out one hand.
“White Dove,” he said, and his voice was as sweet and gentle as the murmur of a brook, “come to me.”
Somehow she did not fear him then. She arose and went, to him, permitting him to take her hand.
“Look,” he said, pointing toward a black speck upon the plain, “there is Frank Merriwell! He is coming for you! He is on my trail, but I could take you where he could never find us. Instead of that, White Dove, I am going to take you down there to meet him!”
She gave a scream of joy.