“Brought you to meet me?” repeated Frank, doubtingly. “Why should he do that?”
“He is going to give me up—going to let me go back with you.”
“Is that right, Swiftwing?”
The Indian bowed.
“The White Dove speaks straight,” he said, quietly.
“But—but I do not understand! They said the only way to save her was to kill you—that you were like all Indians, and——”
Swiftwing seemed to cringe a bit, and the black look on his face deepened.
“They were wrong,” he said. “To-day I am not an Indian—I am a fool! Tell them I was a fool, and I brought the White Dove to meet you! Do you know what I have done, Merriwell? I will tell you. By giving the White Dove up after taking her away as I did, I shall win the contempt of my people. They will look on me as a coward! They will spit on me with scorn! They will say I have the heart of a chicken! With them I shall be an outcast and a thing of contempt. Is it nothing? I have done this for you—and for the White Dove. I thought she loved me; she says she does not. Take her—take her away. Never shall I look on her again! Farewell, Merriwell!”
“Your hand, John Swiftwing!” cried Frank. “Your heart is all right, after all! Old fellow, I’ll see you this fall, when we play Carlisle again!”
With a sad smile, the Indian youth shook his head.