Wacora said this with an accent that sounded almost sneering.
The old chief answered warmly.
“Well, I owed their chief a debt of gratitude, I paid it. He is my friend.”
“Friend!” said Wacora, with a bitter smile; “since when has the pale-face been a friend to the red man?”
“Still unjust, Wacora. I thought you had changed. The foolish sentiments of youth should give place to the wisdom of age.”
Oluski’s eye brightened as he spoke. His heart swelled with noble feelings.
“I do not, will not, trust in the white man!” answered the young chief. “What has he done to our race that we should believe in him? Look at his acts and then trust him if you can. Where are the Mohawks, the Shawnees, the Delawares, and the Narragansets? How has the white man kept faith with them?”
“All white men are not alike,” responded Oluski. “A pale-face befriended me when I required aid. The deed always weighs against the word. I could not be ungrateful.”
“Well, Oluski’s gratitude has been proved,” returned Wacora. “But let him beware of those on whom it has been bestowed.”
The old chief did not answer, but stood in an attitude of thought.