"What's that, Father?" I asked, indicating the mark on his brow.
"Tush, youngster! Nothing! Nothing at all! Sampled scalping-knife on me; thought better of it, kept me out of the martyr's crown."
"And left you your own!" cried Hamilton astonished at the priest's careless stoicism.
"Left me my own," responded Father Holland.
"Do you mean to say the murderous——" I began.
"Tush, youngster! Be quiet!" said he. "Haven't many brethren come from the same tribe more like warped branches than men? What am I, that I should escape? Never speak of it again," and he continued his silent study of the flames' play.
"Where are your Indians?" he asked abruptly.
"In the lodges. Shall I whistle for them?"
He did not answer, but leaned forward with elbows on his knees, rubbing his chin vigorously first with one hand, then the other, still studying the fire.
"How strong are the Mandanes?" he asked.