Softswan did not move, but continued silently to stir the soup in the pot on the fire.
Presently many footsteps were heard outside, and the sound of men conversing in low tones. Another moment, and a handsome middle-aged Indian stood in the doorway. With an expression of profound sorrow, he gazed for one moment at the wounded man; then, striding forward, knelt beside him and grasped his hand.
“My white father!” he said.
“Whitewing!” exclaimed the preacher; “I little expected that our meeting should be like this!”
“Is the preacher badly hurt?” asked the Indian in a low voice.
“It may be so; I cannot tell. My feelings lead me to—to doubt—I was going to say fear, but I have nothing to fear. ‘He doeth all things well.’ If my work on earth is not done, I shall live; if it is finished, I shall die.”