Scarouady and Robert stepped forward into the fire circle. The old man glanced at them; then he looked at Washington, as if curious to see what Washington would do. He was a large old man, with a tired, thin face, sharp beaked nose, and bulging gray eyes; and he was watching Washington.
Washington sat calmly.
“Our brothers are welcome,” he said. The old man nodded as if satisfied. Washington was larger and browner than before, and wore Indian moccasins, leather trousers, and a deer-hide shirt underneath his wool coat, and upon his head a fox-skin cap. This camp at the edge of the thick, frosty forest might have been a thousand miles into the wilderness, for it was a very simple camp—a regular woodsman’s camp.
Scarouady was eying Washington; and Scarouady, with his fierce visage, his Oneida paint and his cheeks tattooed with bow-and-arrow, his head shaven except for his scalp lock, and the Cherokee scalp stiff in his belt, might easily have frightened these English.
“It is good,” he said. “I seek Washington.”
“By George, George!” crackled the old man. “He does? Who’s your friend?”
“I am George Washington,” said the young chief. “My brother has travelled far. He is an Oneida. Let him sit down and eat and rest.” And Washington made the sign for eating and resting.
“George, George!” laughed the old man. “You’re gettin’ on. Gist could do no better.”
The Hunter saw that Washington had learned manners. The first time, he had asked questions; now he asked no questions. Curiosity is impolite. He used the sign language. He spoke to Scarouady the chief, he read the Oneida paint, he did not appear to recognize Robert who was not a warrior.