"Also," said a young blood who was of Honk-Ah's hunting-party, "we would see more of this squaw whom he brings into camp—or who brings him." A laugh. "Our brother Pŭl-Yūn went forth for a wife" (the word had the secondary meaning of female slave), "but has come back with a master." More laughter.
The silence within the old chief's tee-pee was unbroken for a while, and when the hanging portière moved it was shifted with the utmost deliberation. The old chief himself came forth followed by Pŭl-Yūn. The elder spoke.
"My young men are noisy to-night. It is not good. My grandson has brought home a wife. He has done well. I say it. Is my nephew's heart black because he has no wife? The passes were open last autumn for him as for my grandson. Let him make his heart white or go forth upon his wife-hunting so soon as he chooses."
"The passes are not open—" interposed Honk-Ah insolently.
"The passes are open to a brave with a big heart,—or, for the matter of that to a brave with a squaw's heart," riposted the old chief severely. "My grandson crossed yesterday; his wife crossed with him."
There was silence, an astounded silence. Honk-Ah felt himself slipping: he must make a push for it. He spoke.
"We do not believe—" he began, but the old chief cut him short,—
"I believe, and that is enough for my people. And, listen to me, Honk-Ah, and you who side with him, for I know what is in your hearts,—this thing shall come to a head, it shall cease, and at once. My grandson Pŭl-Yūn was war-chief when he went forth. Is he weaker, or less brave, or less cunning since he has returned?"
There were mutterings in the darkness. Pŭl-Yūn stepped to the front and spoke: very gently he spoke, but they knew him.