The chief was Oluski, and among the individuals around was his daughter, Sansuta.
The others were his kindred.
They had assembled, as was their usual evening custom, in front of his wigwam, to listen to tales of virtue or valour; of deeds done by their ancestors in the days of the early Spanish settlers.
The Indians are admirable listeners, and, in the easy natural attitudes into which they fell as they lent forward to catch Oluski’s words, they formed a charming tableau.
The venerable chief, with dignified action, measured speech, and great skill in modulating his voice, held their attention as much by the manner as the matter of his narrative.
As the incident he was relating developed pathos, chivalry, horror or revenge, so did his audience yield themselves to its influences. By turns they lowered their eyes, shuddered, stared wildly around with knit brows and clenched hands.
Like all people constantly communing with nature, they were easily moved to joy or sorrow; and not civilised enough to make any attempt at concealing it.
As Oluski sat in their midst, the observed of all observers, he looked the picture of a patriarch.
The time and piece were both in harmony with the subject.
Oluski’s story drew to a close. His hero had achieved his triumph. The distressed Seminole maiden was rescued, and joy and union wound up the tale, which had for more than an hour held his listeners enthralled.