Mary met them fearlessly; a wild, spiritual beauty lighted up her face. The Indians lost their ferocity, and looked on her with grave tenderness; one of them reached forth his hand, she laid hers in the swarthy palm, where it rested like a snowdrop on the brown earth; he looked down upon it, and smiled; her courage charmed him.
“The white bird is brave, the Great Spirit folds his wing over her which is pure like the snow,” he said, addressing his companions in their own language.
Mary knew a little of the Shawnee tongue, and looking up at the savage said, very gently:
“Why harm my father? The Great Spirit covers him, also, with a wing which is broad and white, like the clouds. Look in his face. Is he afraid?”
The Indians drew back, and looked fiercely at the missionary, gathering up their rifles with menacing gestures.
He understood their language well, and spoke to them with that calm self-possession which gives dignity to courage.
“My children,” he said, “what wrong have I done that you should wish to kill me?”
The leading savage set down his gun with a clang upon the rock.
“You have sat by the white man’s council-fire down yonder. The Great Father over the big water is our friend, but you hate the Indian, and will help them drive us through the wind gap into strange hunting grounds.”
“I am not your enemy. See, I carry no tomahawk or musket; my bosom is open to your knives. The Great Spirit has sent me here, and He will keep me free from harm.”