"The señor forgets that my daughter is an Indian and that he is a white
man."

"I do not care whether she is Indian or white. I love her and I want her
to be my wife."

"You mean that you do not care what she is now. But after she is your
wife you want her to be a white woman in her heart. You want to take her
away from me, her father, and away from her mother, and her clan, and all
our people, and make her forget us and forget that she is an Indian. No!"

"No, señor!" urged the Lieutenant, "I do not wish her to forget you. She
shall come back to visit you whenever she wishes."

A crafty look came into Ambrosio's eyes. "There is one way," he went on
quietly, not heeding Wemple's reply, "in which you may make her your
wife. But there is only one."

The officer leaned eagerly forward in his saddle and the girl inside the
door clasped her hands and listened breathlessly. The old Indian went
on, slowly and deliberately, as if to give his listener time to weigh his
words, while his keen eyes searched the white man's face.

"You think my daughter loves you well enough to forsake and forget her
people if I would let her. Do you love her well enough to leave your
people and become one of us? Do you love her well enough to be an Indian
all the rest of your life, wear your hair in side-locks, enter the clan
of the eagle, or the panther, become Koshare or Cuirana, dance at the
feasts, forget your people, and never again be other than an Indian? If