"Good," the sorcerer answered, "I recognise you; you are, indeed, the great braves of my nation, your hands are red with the blood of our enemies; but," he added, taking a gloomy glance around, "all our warriors are not present; what has become of those who are missing?"
There was a moment of mournful silence at this question.
"Answer," the sorcerer continued imperiously; "have you abandoned your brothers?"
"No," Black-deer said, "they are dead, it is true, but we have brought back their bodies with us, and their scalps are untouched."
"Good," said the sorcerer; "how many warriors have fallen?"
"Only ten."
"How did they die?"
"Like brave men, with their face turned to their foe."
"Good, the Wacondah has received them into the happy hunting grounds; have their squaws bewailed them?"
"They are doing so."