Intschu-Tschuna gave us each a hand, and said in a tone that evidently came from his heart: “I consent. You shall be not merely brothers, but a single man with two bodies. How!”
Having said this the chief left us, and Winnetou and I went away together, and sat down by the bank of the broad Rio Pecos, now reddening in the setting sun. The depths of Winnetou’s earnest nature had been profoundly stirred by what he had just learned of his beloved teacher’s dying love and care for him. He took my hand, and held it in his own for a long time without speaking, and I had no desire to break the silence. At last Winnetou moved, sighed, and asked: “Will my brother Old Shatterhand forget that we were his enemies?”
“It is already forgotten,” I replied.
“But there is one thing you cannot forgive,” he said.
“What is that?”
“The insult my father gave you the day we met.”
“Oh, after the murder, when he spat in my face?”
“Yes.”
“Why could I not forgive that?”
“Because only blood can wash away such an insult.”