The patient smiled, and pressed his hand. The Indian rose joyfully; took from his provision bag some fruit, and handed it to the man. Through these attentions the stranger was sufficiently recovered, within an hour, to get up. He then explained to Sparrowhawk, in bad Spanish, that he and one of his friends were travelling together, that their horses died of fatigue, while themselves could procure nothing to eat or drink in the desert. The result was, that his friend died in his arms only the previous day, after frightful suffering, and he should have probably shared the same fate, had not his lucky star, or rather Providence, sent him help.
"Good," the Indian replied, when the stranger ended his narrative, "my father is now strong, I will lasso a horse, and lead him to the first habitation of the men of his own colour."
At this proposition the stranger frowned; a look of hatred and haughty contempt was legible on his face.
"No," he said; "I will not return to the men of my colour, they have rejected and persecuted me, I hate them; I wish to live henceforward in the desert."
"Wah!" the Indian exclaimed, in surprise, "has my father no nation?"
"No," he answered, "I am alone, without country, relatives, or friends; the sight of a man of my colour excites me to hatred and contempt; all are ungrateful, I will live far from them."
"Good," the Indian said; "I, too, am rejected by my nation; I, too, am alone; I will remain with my father—I will be his son."
"What?" the stranger ejaculated, fancying he had misunderstood him, "Is it possible? Does banishment also exist among your wandering tribes? You, like myself, are abandoned by those of your race and blood, and condemned to remain alone—alone for ever?"
"Yes," Sparrowhawk said, sorrowfully, bowing his head.
"Oh!" the stranger said, directing a glance of strange meaning toward heaven, "oh, men! they are the same everywhere, cruel, unnatural, and heartless!"