“On the waters of the wide lake,” said Custa, holding up his hand toward the north, “the red-skins wear a bead for every scalp. Our white brother cuts a mark in a little bit of wood. Carry it about like the little gods of the priests.”
“Bah!” said Harvey, “not our priests; you will confound the Romans with us.”
“They all worship the same Father,” replied Custa, in a low tone, talking rather to himself than to Harvey; “why does one man say one thing, one another?”
Custa sighed. As yet religion had not fully touched his heart. He understood Christianity to a certain extent, and yet the faith was not in him, though Amy and Jane had both striven for years, aided by Clara’s father, to open his eyes.
The Eccentric Artist made no reply, not wishing to enter upon a topic which had often induced heated arguments between them. He smoked his pipe with redoubled vigor, and gazed with a mysterious awe at the bereaved husband, whose kindly nature and warm heart appeared to have utterly fled before the fierce, untamed passion of revenge.
To speak to him he knew was useless now while the night of sorrow and wrath was on his soul, concealing all that was bright and good on earth, and prompting him only to deeds of darkness.
“Harvey,” said Custaloga, when he had smoked his calumet pipe in peace for some time, “my heart is very sad; the singing-bird is safe in the wigwam of her father; but the queen-bird is silent in the lodge of the Shawnees.”
“She is, Custa,” replied Harvey, moodily, “and must be got out, if we fight the whole tribe of dingy catamounts.”
“My brother,” said Custa, affectionately, “is a brave, and not a boaster; he talks of fighting a cloud of men, but he does not mean it. The Shawnee villages are as many as the weeks of the year, and each village has more warriors than there are days.”
“Then by all the b’ars in Kentuck, what is to be done?” exclaimed Harvey, impatiently.