Again he paused; but, as before, Seguin remained silent.
The speaker proceeded.
“Why not let the yellow-haired maiden return with us, and become my wife? Who am I that ask this? A chief of the Navajoes, the descendants of the great Montezuma; the son of their king!”
The savage looked around him with a vaunting air as he uttered these words.
“Who is she,” he continued, “that I am thus begging for a bride? The daughter of one who is not even respected among his own people: the daughter of a culatta!”
I looked at Seguin. I saw his form dilating. I saw the big veins swelling along his throat. I saw gathering in his eyes that wild expression I had once before noticed. I knew that the crisis was near.
Again the eagle screamed!
“But,” proceeded the savage, seeming to draw new boldness from the signal, “I shall beg no more. I love the white maiden. She must be mine; and this very night shall she sleep—”
He never finished the sentence. Seguin’s bullet had sped, piercing the centre of his forehead. I caught a glimpse of the red round hole, with its circle of blue powder, as the victim tell forward on his face!