“By all means—Ho, Redfeather; are you trying to stop the wind by looking it out of countenance?”
The Indian rose and walked towards the spot where the boys lay.
“What was Redfeather thinking about?” said Charley, adopting the somewhat pompous style of speech occasionally used by Indians. “Was he thinking of the white swan and his little ones in the prairie; or did he dream of giving his enemies a good licking the next time he meets them?”
“Redfeather has no enemies,” replied the Indian. “He was thinking of the great Manito,[[3]] who made the wild winds, and the great lakes, and the forest.”
[3] God.
“And pray, good Redfeather, what did your thoughts tell you?”
“They told me that men are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked; and that Manito is very good and patient to let them live.”
“That is to say,” cried Harry, who was surprised and a little nettled to hear what he called the heads of a sermon from a red-skin, “that you, being a man, are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked, and that Manito is very good and patient to let you live?”
“Good,” said the Indian calmly; “that is what I mean.”
“Come, Redfeather,” said Charley, laying his hand on the Indian’s arm, “sit down beside us, and tell us some of your adventures. I know that you must have had plenty, and it’s quite clear that we’re not to get away from this place all day, so you’ve nothing better to do.”