He shook his head gloomily. “Once it may be, but the evil spirits tempt us to death. It matters not what comes to Tekewani; he is as the leaf that falls from the stem; but for Summer Song that has far to go, it is the madness from beyond the Hills of Life.”
She took his hand. “I will not do it again, Tekewani.”
“How!” he said, with hand upraised, as one who greets the great in this world.
“I don’t know why I did it,” she added meaningly. “It was selfish. I feel that now.”
The woman in black pressed her hand timidly.
“It is so for ever with the great,” Tekewani answered. “It comes, also, from beyond the Hills—the will to do it. It is the spirit that whispers over the earth out of the Other Earth. No one hears it but the great. The whisper only is for this one here and that one there who is of the Few. It whispers, and the whisper must be obeyed. So it was from the beginning.”
“Yes, you understand, Tekewani,” she answered softly. “I did it because something whispered from the Other Earth to me.”
Her head drooped a little, her eyes had a sudden shadow.
“He will understand,” answered the Indian; “your father will understand,” as though reading her thoughts. He had clearly read her thought, this dispossessed, illiterate Indian chieftain. Yet, was he so illiterate? Had he not read in books which so few have learned to read? His life had been broken on the rock of civilization, but his simple soul had learned some elemental truths—not many, but the essential ones, without which there is no philosophy, no understanding. He knew Fleda Druse was thinking of her father, wondering if he would understand, half-fearing, hardly hoping, dreading the moment when she must meet him face to face. She knew she had been selfish, but would Gabriel Druse understand? She raised her eyes in gratitude to the Blackfeet chief.
“I must go home,” she said.