“Don’t say that, don’t say that, Winnetou,” cried Sam in horror. “I can’t leave Old Shatterhand.”
“You must if I command it,” said the young chief. “I will not hear a word. Will you come with me, or shall my braves bind you and take you away?”
“We are in your power, and must obey. When shall we see Old Shatterhand again?”
“On the day of his death and yours.”
“Not before?”
“No.”
“Then let us say good-by now, before we follow you.”
He grasped my hands, and I felt his beard on my face as he kissed my brow. Stone and Parker did the same, and then they went away with Winnetou.
I lay a long time alone, till the Apaches came and carried me I knew not where, for I was too weak to see, and then I was left alone again, and slept. When I awoke I could open my eyes and move my tongue a little, and was far less weak than before. I found to my surprise that I lay in the furthest corner of a large, square room, built of stone, which received its light from an opening on one side which served as door. The skins of grizzly bears had been piled on top of one another to make a comfortable bed, and I was covered with a beautifully embroidered Indian blanket. In the corner by the door sat two Indian women, one old, the other young. Like all Indian women after they are past their youth, the former was ugly, bent, and seamed by the hard work that falls on the squaws when the braves are on the war-path or hunting. But the younger was very beautiful, so much so that she would have attracted attention in any civilized society. She wore a long, light blue garment, gathered about the neck, and held around the waist by a girdle of rattlesnake-skin. Her only ornament was her long, splendid hair, which fell below her hips in two heavy black braids. It resembled Winnetou’s, and the girl looked like him. She had the same velvety black eyes, which were half concealed by long, dark lashes, and there was no trace in her, nor in him, of the high cheek-bones of the Indian; her soft oval cheeks curved into a chin with a mischievous dimple. She spoke softly to the old woman, not to awaken me, and as her pretty, red lips parted in a laugh, her even, white teeth flashed between them. Her delicate nose was rather of Grecian than of Indian type, and her skin was a light copper bronze, with a silvery tint. This maiden looked about eighteen years old, and was, I felt sure, the sister of Winnetou.
I moved, and the maiden looked up from her work, rose, and came over to me. “You are awake,” she said, in perfectly good English to my surprise. “Is there anything you would like?” I opened my mouth, but closed it again, realizing that I could not speak. However, I had been able to move by an effort; perhaps I could speak if I tried. I made a great effort, and said: “Yes—I—want—much.”