For that hour at least the half-breed was all Sioux.

His father's blood was the water in his veins, the red was only his Indian mother's.

With face drawn tense and lips bared into a snarl, with eyes gleaming, he gazed fascinated upon the face of the singer.

In imagination, in instinct, in the deepest emotions of his soul Jerry was harking back again to the savage in him, and the savage in him thirsting for revenge upon the white man who had wrought this ruin upon him and his Indian race.

With a fine dramatic instinct the Sioux reached his climax and abruptly ceased.