“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I wouldn’t do that needlessly, though I look upon you as an enemy.”
“I fully understand your feeling toward me,” Bradford replied, his features working. “It’s unnecessary for you to explain.”
Douglas was surprised. Who was this strange man, to whom he owed his life and for whom he felt such antipathy—and who appeared determined to be his friend? To relieve his embarrassment, the younger man asked:
“Have you spent much of your life among the Indians?”
“Half of it,” was the curt reply.
By this time they were nearing the entrance of the council lodge; and Bradford continued:
“There—we have safely run the gauntlet of scowling looks and threatening gestures. I feared we should not get through so easily. Now we’ll have an interview with Tenskwatawa. Oh! there he is.”
In front of the council lodge stood the Prophet. He was alone. His head was bowed; his chin, buried in the folds of his buffalo-robe. He was a bronze statue of gloom—the personification of utter dejection.
“Come,” whispered Bradford to Douglas. “Let’s hurry to him while he’s alone. Our safety depends upon our winning him to our side.”