"Yes, you understand, Tekewani," she answered softly. "I did it because
something whispered from the Other Earth to me."

Her head drooped a little, her eyes had a sudden shadow.

"He will understand," answered the Indian; "your father will understand,"
as though reading her thoughts. He had clearly read her thought, this
dispossessed, illiterate Indian chieftain. Yet, was he so illiterate?
Had he not read in books which so few have learned to read? His life had
been broken on the rock of civilization, but his simple soul had learned
some elemental truths--not many, but the essential ones, without which
there is no philosophy, no understanding. He knew Fleda Druse was
thinking of her father, wondering if he would understand, half-fearing,
hardly hoping, dreading the moment when she must meet him face to face.
She knew she had been selfish, but would Gabriel Druse understand? She
raised her eyes in gratitude to the Blackfeet chief.

"I must go home," she said.

She turned to go, but as she did so, a man came swaggering down the
street, broke through the crowd, and made towards her with an arm raised,
a hand waving, and a leer on his face. He was a thin, rather handsome,
dissolute-looking fellow of middle height and about forty, in dandified
dress. His glossy black hair fell carelessly over his smooth forehead
from under a soft, wide-awake hat.

"Manitou for ever!" he cried, with a flourish of his hand. "I salute
the brave. I escort the brave to the gates of Manitou. I escort the
brave. I escort the brave. Salut! Salut! Salut! Well done, Beauty