"The Great Spirit built them," I answered. "Ay, and tends them this moment."
Tawannears bent doubting glance upon my face.
"'Tis so," I affirmed. "Do you remember in the missionary's school, talk of mountains called volcanoes?"
"But those were found only in hot countries—or so they taught us," answered the Seneca.
"Then they taught you wrong. I, myself, have seen such a mountain in Italy, which is in Europe. And here we stand on a mountain that is—or has been—a volcano."
Corlaer jumped perceptibly.
"Volcanoes hafe fires?" he protested.
"Yes," I agreed. "Did not our Indian friends tell us that sometimes Tamanoas exploded—made a loud noise? That is what they meant. Deep down, under all this ice and snow, in the bowels of the rocks, burns the undying fire of the world. And I suppose 'tis not far wrong to say the Great Spirit tends that. From it flows all life, and is not He the Giver of Life?"
"Ja," said the Dutchman thoughtfully. "Andt now we go down pretty —— quick, eh?"
But I pointed to the sun dropping in the West behind a welter of clouds, and then to the miles of icy rocks betwixt us and the timber-line.