"Oh! I know he is! I know he is!" cried Nell, still standing between
Wetzel and the chief.
Wingenund spoke no word. He did not move. His falcon eyes gazed tranquilly at his white foe. Christian or pagan, he would not speak one word to save his life.
"Oh! tell him you are a Christian," cried Nell, running to the chief.
"Yellow-hair, the Delaware is true to his race."
As he spoke gently to Nell a noble dignity shone upon his dark face.
"Injun, my back bears the scars of your braves' whips," hissed
Wetzel, once more advancing.
"Deathwind, your scars are deep, but the Delaware's are deeper," came the calm reply. "Wingenund's heart bears two scars. His son lies under the moss and ferns; Deathwind killed him; Deathwind alone knows his grave. Wingenund's daughter, the delight of his waning years, freed the Delaware's great foe, and betrayed her father. Can the Christian God tell Wingenund of his child?"
Wetzel shook like a tree in a storm. Justice cried out in the
Indian's deep voice. Wetzel fought for mastery of himself.
"Delaware, your daughter lays there, with her lover," said Wetzel firmly, and pointed into the spring.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian, bending over the dark pool. He looked long into its murky depths. Then he thrust his arm down into the brown water.