“I do not need to be forgiven, for I have done no wrong. But I would ask a favor of you. In case you see Sam Hawkins, tell him to feel no anxiety, for as soon as I am well we shall be free again.”
“Do not think that; this hope will never be fulfilled.”
“It is not hope, but certainty; later on Fair Day will tell me I was right.” The tone in which I spoke was so confident that she gave up contradicting me, and went away without another word.
I improved steadily; the skeleton took on the flesh and muscles of a living man, and the wound in my mouth healed. Nscho-Tschi remained always the same, kindly careful, yet sure that death was daily drawing nearer me. I noticed after a while that when she thought herself unobserved her eyes rested on me with a sorrowful, questioning look; she seemed to be beginning to pity me. I had thought her heartless, but had wronged her. At last, one beautiful, sunny morning in late autumn Nscho-Tschi brought my breakfast, and sat beside me, instead of keeping at a distance as she had done since I was able to move about and had almost completely regained my strength. Her eyes were moist and rested on me tenderly, and at last two tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You are crying,” I said. “What has happened?”
“The Kiowas are going home; their ransom has come, and now they go.”
“And that grieves you so? You must have indeed become good friends.”
“You do not know of what you speak, nor suspect what lies before you. The farewell of the Kiowas is to be celebrated by your torture and that of your three white brothers.”
I had been expecting this, and did not shrink as I heard it. I ate my breakfast quietly, wondering what would happen before the sun went down—possibly, in spite of my fancied security, the last sun I should look upon. I gave the dish back to Fair Day, who took it, no longer able to keep back her tears.
“This is the last time I shall speak to you,” she said. “Farewell. You are called Old Shatterhand, and are a strong warrior. Be strong when they torture you. Nscho-Tschi is sore distressed by your death, but she will rejoice if you show no signs of pain and lock your groans in your own breast. Give me this happiness, and die like a hero.”