“Mahaska’s voice is like the wind sent by the Great Spirit,” returned the oldest chief in the assembly; “it goes straight to the hearts of her brethren.”
“Mahaska speaks only as the Great Spirit commands her,” she said, “from the wisdom of the visions which he sends to her in the night time.”
The little knot of chiefs who were opposed to her whispered ominously among themselves—the woman’s quick eye noticed this.
“Do the braves meet at the council-fire to hold secret consultations?” she demanded, turning toward the old chief Upepah.
“They meet to speak their thoughts and wishes,” he answered; “why is Mahaska troubled?”
She pointed toward the little group and said in a low, silky tone, which, after the savages learned to know her better, they knew covered the fiercest and bitterest anger:
“Because, the Fox whispers among his friends and sneers at Mahaska’s words.”
The chiefs turned toward the little party with frowning brows, and murmurs of disapprobation broke from the people in the background, over whom Mahaska’s influence already was almost boundless.
The braves with whom the Fox had been whispering dropped slowly from his side, not daring to support his cause however strongly their wishes might go with his. He was a middle-aged man, with a peculiar depth of firmness and sullen obstinacy in his face. Though he looked slightly discomposed by this unexpected address, he bore the dissatisfied glances with cold dignity.
“Mahaska came among her people because the Great Spirit sent her, and because the Senecas asked her to come,” continued the woman. “It is not well that, in the very outset of her work among you, designing chiefs should whisper among you like bad spirits to counteract her great purposes.”