“But I have something important to say to him.”
“He will not hear it. Yet if you will tell me what it is, perhaps he will let me tell him about it.”
“No, thank you. I could tell you perfectly well; but if he is too proud to come to me, I have a pride of my own, and will send him no messages.”
“You will not see him till the day of your death. We will leave you now. If you need anything, call us; we shall hear, and will come to you.”
She gave me a little willow whistle, and then went away with the old squaw.
My young nurse attended me faithfully every day; fed me savory broths and porridges from a wooden spoon, kneeling at my bedside, and nourishing me like a helpless child. Day by day I grew stronger under this care, though for a long time it hurt me dreadfully to eat. I tried to keep down all expression of pain, but in spite of myself the water would stand in my eyes when I swallowed. Nscho-Tschi saw this, and Indian-like admired silent endurance of pain.
“It is a pity,” she said suddenly one day, “that you were born a lying pale-face, and not an Apache.”
“I do not lie; I never lie, as you will learn later.”
“I should be glad to think so, but Kleki-Petrah was the only pale-face in whom truth dwelt. You murdered him, and must die, and be buried with him.”
I felt sure that I should not die, for I had incontrovertible proof of our innocence in the lock of hair which I had cut from Winnetou’s head when I freed him. But had I it still? Had it not been taken from me? I searched my pockets, and found everything as I had left it; nothing had been taken from me but my weapons. I took out my box of papers, and found Winnetou’s hair safely folded between them. I laid it back with a happy heart; possessing this I had no fear of dying.