This was the first time Winnetou had ever called me by my own name, and I was more than surprised to discover in him a knowledge of the most sacred of Catholic practices, for of course he spoke of Kleki-Petrah’s going to Santa Fé to fulfil his Easter duties.
“Winnetou,” I answered sincerely, “whatever there is at home that I love—and there is much,—and whatever there is in the great cities of the East to satisfy mind and soul, believe me I have learned to love you and respect you too deeply to leave you willingly; and if I go away, nothing but death shall keep me from returning to my red brother’s side. And some day my brave Winnetou’s noble soul also shall be nourished with that heavenly Food which Kleki-Petrah went so far to seek, and which I need to help me on the way he has gone.”
“You are then a Christian, really believing in your faith?” he asked.
“I don’t say I’m a good Christian,—God alone knows whether or not I am that,—but I have strong faith; yes, and I’d gladly be a good one.”
“And you think we are heathen?”
“No; you believe in the great, Good Spirit, and never worship idols.”
“Then grant me one request.”
“Gladly. What is it?”
“Never speak of your faith to me. Never try to convert me. It is as Kleki-Petrah said. Your faith may be the true one, but we red men cannot understand it. If Christians did not drive us out and oppress us, we might feel that they were good men, and hold their teaching as good. Then we might have time and place to learn what one needs to know of your Holy Book and your priests’ teaching in order to understand them. But he who is slowly and surely driven to death cannot feel that the religion of those who kill him is the religion of love.”
“You must distinguish between the religion and the followers who only acknowledge it in words, but never act by its light,” I said, at a loss how to meet this reproach.