The old chief also perceived that such was the prevailing sentiment: and despite his pretensions to fair-play, he was evidently nettled at the reply. The father of Wakono was undoubtedly no Brutus.
After a momentary pause, he resumed speech, but in a tone entirely altered. He was now painting the reverse side of Hissoo-royo’s portrait, and as he threw in the darker touches, it was with evident pique and hostility.
“I honour the Spanish wolf,” he continued; “I honour him for his strong arm and his stout heart: I have said so; but hear me, Hietans—hear me, children and brothers! there are two of every kind—there is a night and a day—a winter and a summer—a green prairie and a desert plain, and like these is the tongue of Hissoo-royo. It speaks two ways that differ as the light from the darkness—it is double—it forks like the tongue of the rattle-serpent—it is not to be believed.”
The chief ceased speaking, and the “Spanish wolf” was permitted to make reply.
He did not attempt to defend himself from the charge of the double tongue; perhaps he knew that the accusation was just enough, and he had no reason to tremble for his popularity on that score. He must have been a great liar, indeed, to have excelled or even equalled the most ordinary story-teller in the Comanche nation; for the mendacity of these Indians would have been a match for Sparta herself.
The renegade did not even deny the aspersion: he seemed to be confident in his case: he simply replied—
“If the tongue of Hissoo-royo is double, let not the council rely upon his words! let witnesses be called! there are many who are ready to testify to the truth of what Hissoo-royo has spoken.”
“First hear Wakono! Let Wakono be heard! Where is Wakono?”
These demands were made by various members of the council, who spoke simultaneously.
Once more the crier’s voice was heard calling “Wakono!”