Well did Keith know that "Tinjih zhigtoyin rsho," to the Indian, was "Man, do not kill," but how often he had explained that tinjih, man, meant everybody, men, women, and children. But here was a child—a child in years, though a woman in thought—who through long brooding had absorbed only that which appealed to her own case. What was he to do?
"Christ said," he replied, after a pause, "that we are to forgive people who wrong us. He said 'your enemies,' and that includes the man who killed your mother."
"But no one ever killed Christ's mother," answered the girl.
"No, not His mother, Jennie. But cruel men killed Him, drove nails through His hands and feet, and hung Him on the cross. But He forgave them, and asked His Father to do the same."
To these words she listened intently, and a gentler look came into her face. "I like Him," she said. "He was good to little children, and loved the birds and flowers."
A ray of hope shot into Keith's heart. Was he to win after all?
"Give me the knife, Jennie," and he stretched out his hand for the weapon.
But the girl drew back. "No, no!" she cried. "You will keep it. I want it."
"What, to-night?"
"Yes, to-night. I must kill him."