was from the
beginning."

"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
Beauty--Beauty--Beauty, well done again!"

He held out his hand to Fleda, but she drew back with disgust. Felix
Marchand, the son of old Hector Marchand, money-lender and capitalist of
Manitou, had pressed his attentions upon her during the last year since
he had returned from the East, bringing dissoluteness and vulgar pride
with him. Women had spoiled him, money had corrupted and degraded him.

"Come, beautiful brave, it's Salut! Salut! Salut!" he said, bending
towards her familiarly.

Her face flushed with anger.

"Let me pass, monsieur," she said sharply.

"Pride of Manitou--" he apostrophized, but got no farther.

Ingolby caught him by the shoulders, wheeled him round, and then flung
him at the feet of Tekewani and his braves.

At this moment Tekewani's eyes had such a fire as might burn in
Wotan's smithy. He was ready enough to defy