'The God of the white men has the greater power,' he continued unmoved. 'He has conquered ours, and bidden the enemy rule over us. Therefore, daughter, I would for the time follow that God.'
'You, who always hated the white, become one of them! What plan is this?'
'Then I should be one of His followers, and He would hear my prayers. Now I have other gods, so He could not listen to me. I would beseech Him each day, to grant us vengeance upon the white man.'
'Will you sport with the lightning?' she said calmly.
'I care not. I will take canoe, before the ice binds the river, and paddle for six days. Then I shall find one of their doctors. I have heard the wanderers tell of him. They call him Father Bertrand. He must tell me what I am to do, to join the followers of the white God.'
She turned from him wearily, longing vaguely for silence and isolation. 'Pray to whom you will; all gods are the same. They laugh at sorrow, and they heed not.'
'You shall see, child. I have greater wisdom than you. But now we must take our part in mourning for the dead.'
He took her cold, resistless hand, and together they stepped within the ruddy glow. Then he raised his sh king hands and cried aloud,—
'Mourn, warriors! The Chief, who led you to battle, who kept you in peace, who gave you wise counsel, your father, your ruler, is dead. Cry aloud to the Spirit, and sing your songs of grief.
'Mourn, women! The Chief, who loved you, who protected you, who smiled upon you with favours, your father, your husband, is dead. Scream your lamentations, tear your hair, dig the sharp nails into breasts, and cry aloud in your grief.'