“I was, good man, but am no longer.”
“Not the friend of our settlement?”
“I am the friend of no man in whom a drop of pale-faced blood runs, except of Simon Girty and his men.”
“Are you not a friend to me, good Wingenund?”
“If we meet in battle, there is nothing but enmity between us.”
“I am sorry for that, but I trust we shall never meet thus. But, Wingenund, let me ask the meaning of this change, although I fear I know the reason already.”
“Have you been yonder?” asked the savage, pointing his hand back of him.
“I have only just returned,” replied the divine.
“You have seen the Moravian Indians?”
“I have seen them, Wingenund.”