“Very well.”
“I believe it. You’ve been fattened like a Martinmas goose, and for the same reason. No, I see no deliverance for us, and the only thing to do is to die bravely. You may believe me or not, but I feel neither fear nor anxiety, though I know by night there will be nothing left of us on earth but four little handfuls of ashes.”
“Possibly; but I haven’t lost hope. I believe that at the end of this threatening day we shall find ourselves all right.”
“Is there any foundation for your hope?”
“Yes; a lock of hair.”
“A lock of hair!” he repeated in amazement. “Hair! What on earth do you mean? Has some lovely maiden in the East sent you her locks to present to the Apaches?”
“No; this is a man’s hair.”
He looked at me as if he doubted my sanity, shook his head, and said: “My dear young friend, you’re really not right in your head. Your wound has knocked something out of place there, for I must say I do not see how a lock of hair can save us from torture.”
“No, but you will see; we’ll be free before the torture begins.”
No one prevented our talking together. Winnetou and his father and Tangua were discussing something with the Apaches who had brought me hither, and paid no attention to us. But now Intschu-Tschuna turned around, and said in a voice plainly audible to all: “My red brothers, sisters, and children, and also the braves of the Kiowa tribe, hear me.” He paused till he saw that he had every one’s attention, and then continued: “The pale-faces are the enemies of the red man, and only seldom is there one whose eyes look upon us in friendship. The noblest of these few good white men came to the Apaches to be their friend and father. Therefore we gave him the name of Kleki-Petrah [White Father]. My brothers and sisters all knew and loved him; let them proclaim it.”