Had any one else spoken in such a peremptory manner he would soon have
learned his mistake. As it was, Dane found it difficult to control
himself.

"I cannot tell you now," he quietly replied. "I must explain nothing,
so please do not press me further."

The Colonel was now thoroughly aroused. His fighting blood was
stirred, and he turned angrily upon his companion.

"Are you ashamed of your father?" he roared. "Who is he? and what has
he done that you won't tell me about him? Surely------" He paused
abruptly, while a look of consternation leaped into his eyes. He
reached out and clutched Dane by the arm. "Tell me," he demanded, in a
voice that was but a hoarse whisper, "is your father an Indian? Speak,
quick. I must know the truth."

With a gesture of impatience, Dane threw aside the clutching hand, and
sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger.

"No, my father is not an Indian," he cried.

He was on the point of saying more, but restraining himself, he picked
up his gun and slipped swiftly away among the trees. Down into the
valley he moved, hardly caring where he went. For the second time in
his life he was afraid of himself; for the second time he fled from an
angry grey-haired man, not through fear of what might happen to
himself, but what he might do. His soul was stirred within him, and
the blood surged madly through his veins. But now, as on that other