I shall offer it to her to-morrow--to-day."
His mother's face took on the shadow of age. "You would marry a
_white_ girl?" she exclaimed, incredulously.
"Yes," came the reply, briefly, decidedly.
"But your children, your sons and hers--they could never hold the
title, never be chief," she said, rising to her feet.
He winced. "I know it. I had not thought of it before--but I know
it. Still, I would marry her."
"But there would be no more chiefs of the Grand Mansion name,"
cut in his father. "The title would go to your aunt's sons. She
is a Grand Mansion no longer; she, being married, is merely a
Straight-Shot, her husband's name. The Straight-Shots never had
noble blood, never wore a title. Shall our family title go to
a _Straight-Shot_?" and the elder chief mouthed the name
contemptuously.
Again the boy winced. The hurt of it all was sinking in--he hated
the Straight-Shots, he loved his own blood and bone. With lightning
rapidity he weighed it all mentally, then spoke: "Perhaps the white
girl will not marry me," he said slowly, and the thought of it
drove the dark red from his cheeks, drove his finger-nails into his
palms.
"Then, then you will marry Dawendine, our choice?" cried his
mother, hopefully.
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