“Mother, Oloompa knows not the words of the Prophet; they say he preaches peace:—Oloompa's thoughts are always the same;—wrongs are sharp knives, they cut deep.”
“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “when the sky is clear, why think of the storms which have passed?”
“My mother's eyes are dim,” said Oloompa, “she sees not the light of the red torch which is kindling. She hears not the groans of the dying in the howling of the winds. Oloompa's tomahawk shall drink deep of the blood of the whites.”
“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “thy bosom is like the big lake when the winds pass over it. Thy words are harsh to my ears. I like them not. Listen. Thou goest to seek the lost maiden. Thou mayest find her; but if ever by words or acts thou wrongest her when found, or the hunters who bade thee seek her, thou art no longer thy mother's son.”
“Pukkwana knows not Oloompa,” he replied. “Were all the hatred he bears her race, felt but for her alone; under his protection, she would be as safe as though his own blood ran flowing through her veins. Oloompa will set out upon his journey. Where will his mother be when his feet are tired of travel?”
“As soon could I tell where the deer will be which range through the woods for their daily food,” replied Pukkwana.
“Even the deer, when the hunter seeks them not, will feed for months in the same green fields,” said Oloompa.
“Then return to the wigwam of thy mother; if she is absent, follow her footsteps.”
“I will,” he replied, and equipping himself for a long journey, he was soon winding his way through the forest.
Oloompa was now in the first dawning of manhood,—his limbs were beautifully moulded, and but for the effect produced by the wound he had received, which showed itself whenever he moved, he would have been conspicuous for the beauty of his person. The traits of character which chiefly distinguished him, were an uncompromising hostility against the whites, a firm adherence to principle, and a more than ordinary attachment to his mother.