“You, with your Indian training, ought to feel with us and not think of fear,” said Warren.
“But then, I am not of the blood.”
“True.”
His reply fell upon her ear like a reproach—a reflection upon her Negro origin. Her suspicion sounded in her voice as she replied:
“Better an Indian than a Negro? I do not blame you for your preference.”
“Why speak with that tone—so scornfully? Is it possible that you can think so meanly of me?”
She could not meet his eye, but her answer was humbly given—her answer couched in the language of the tribes.
“Are you not a white brave? Do not all of them hate the black blood?”
“No; not all white men, thank God. In my country we think not of the color of the skin but of the man—the woman—the heart.”
“Oh, your country! Do you know, I believe my dear papa was of the same?”