“Chief, I want to speak to you about—about—that baby there.” He pointed to the child in the girl’s arms.
The chief motioned the girl away.
“No, Father, it is my child. I will hear what is said.”
“Let her stay,” said Gaspard.
The chief grunted acquiescence. Then Gaspard spoke.
“I want to have the boy educated like a white man. I will pay for all. But I want him to live in the North Country with his mother. That is the best place for him just now.”
A gleam shot across the haughty face of the old chief.
“Listen!” he said in his own speech, his voice clear and vibrant with passion. “You come to my wigwam, wounded, dying. Our people take you in, bring you back from the land of the Great Spirit. For many moons you live with me, my son, her brother. When you grow strong again you become a wolf, you tear my heart; a thief, you rob my cache of the food on which I live, you take away my treasure, my pride, my honour, my name. On my knees”—he fell on his knees, his face distorted with passion—“I make a prayer to the Great Spirit that some day He will show me your face. That day will wipe out my shame in blood.” He rose from his knees. His face once more took on its accustomed look of haughty self-command. “Last night my daughter told me how your woman saved the child from death. Today you too gave your blood for him. I am content. My knife remains in its sheath. I have heard your word. It is not good. The boy is my daughter’s son, he is my son. He will be chief after me. He will be Indian. He will learn all that his mother has learned, and more. But he will be Indian. Tomorrow we go to our own land. Never again will we look upon your face, never again will you come to our land. The day you come to our land you will die.”
“You will let me pay for the boy’s education and—and all that?” Gaspard pleaded in a shaking voice.
“No! No thief shall pay money for the son of Wah-na-ta-hi-ta. Go! dog!”