Despite its perils, he loved the life of the jungle, and but for one thing would have been reasonably happy. That thing was the consciousness of his white blood. It tugged at his heart, and while it gave him pride, it also tormented him. The call of the blood was strong within him. He knew that, somehow, he was out of place. Something was always calling him to go elsewhere, beckoning him on to new horizons, telling him that he belonged to the white people.