His mother's face took on the shadow of age. "You would marry a white girl?" she exclaimed, incredulously.
"Yes," came the reply, briefly, decidedly.
"But your children, your sons and hers—they could never hold the title, never be chief," she said, rising to her feet.
He winced. "I know it. I had not thought of it before—but I know it. Still, I would marry her."
"But there would be no more chiefs of the Grand Mansion name," cut in his father. "The title would go to your aunt's sons. She is a Grand Mansion no longer; she, being married, is merely a Straight-Shot, her husband's name. The Straight-Shots never had noble blood, never wore a title. Shall our family title go to a Straight-Shot?" and the elder chief mouthed the name contemptuously.
Again the boy winced. The hurt of it all was sinking in—he hated the Straight-Shots, he loved his own blood and bone. With lightning rapidity he weighed it all mentally, then spoke: "Perhaps the white girl will not marry me," he said slowly, and the thought of it drove the dark red from his cheeks, drove his finger-nails into his palms.
"Then, then you will marry Dawendine, our choice?" cried his mother, hopefully.
"I shall marry no one but the white girl," he answered, with set lips. "If she will not marry me, I shall never marry, so the Straight-Shots will have our title, anyway."
The door closed behind him. It was as if it had shut forever between him and his own.
But even with this threatened calamity looming before her, the old Indian mother's hurt heart swelled with a certain pride in his wilful actions.