“Why is my brother here by himself?” the Shawnee suavely asked in his own tongue.
“Perhaps it pleases him to be alone,” Bright Wing answered haughtily, in the same language.
“And perhaps he means to leave the village?”
“And if he does, has he not the same right to go and come as the birds of the air or the beasts of the forest?”
“But Tenskwatawa has given orders that none shall leave the village until the appointed time. I know my brother. He is Bright Wing, a Wyandot.”
“And I know my brother. He is Gray Wolf, a Shawnee.”
The two warriors stood glaring at each other in the darkness. Gray Wolf was the first to speak again. He said in a low, intense tone of voice:
“My brother is the friend of the palefaces—the enemy of his race.”
Bright Wing replied proudly:
“The words that fall from my brother’s lips are not the words of truth. Bright Wing is the true friend of his race.”