Once more the voice of the crier was heard pronouncing in triple repetition: “Wakono! Wakono! Wakono!”
Again followed an interval of silence; but I could hear low mutterings of surprise and disappointment as soon as it was perceived that the Indian did not answer to his name.
I alone knew the reason of his absence; I knew that Wakono could not—the true Wakono; that his counterfeit would not come. Though I had undertaken to personate the savage chieftain, for this act in the drama I was not prepared. The stage must wait!
Even at that moment I was sensible of the ludicrousness of the situation; so extreme was it, that even at that moment of direst peril, I felt a half inclination for laughter!
But the feeling was easily checked; and once more parting the branches, I ventured to look forth.
I saw there was some confusion. Wakono had been reported “missing.” The members of the council still preserved both their seats and stoical composure; but the younger warriors behind were uttering harsh ejaculations, and moving about from place to place with that restless air that betokens at once surprise and disappointment.
At this crisis, an Indian was seen emerging from the tent. He was a man of somewhat venerable aspect, though venerable more from age than any positive expression of virtue. His cheeks were furrowed by time, and his hair white as bleached flax—a rare sight among Indians.
There was something about this individual that bespoke him a person of authority. Wakono was the son of the chief—the chief, then, should be an old man. This must be he?
I had no doubt of it, and my conjecture proved to be correct.
The white-haired Indian stepped forward to the edge of the ring, and with a wave of his hand commanded silence.