“It is slow with many in council,” the chief said, in his own smooth-flowing tongue. “You, white man, and I can settle matters quickly. Quicker than these wise men of my father.”
There was a flash of impatience in his speaking eyes. Nevil nodded approval.
“They think much before they speak,” he replied, in the language in which he had been addressed. He, too, smiled; and in their manner toward each other it was plain the excellent understanding they were on.
“Sit, my white brother, we have many things for talk. Even we, like those others, must sit if we would pow-wow well. It is good. Sit.” Little Black Fox laughed shortly, conceiving himself superior in thought to the older generation of wise men. He was possessed of all the vanity of his years.
They both returned to the ground, and the chief kicked together the embers of the council-fire. 82
“Tell me, brother, of Wanaha,” this still unproved warrior went on, in an even, indifferent voice; “she who was the light of our father’s eyes; she who has the wisdom of the rattlesnake, and the gentle heart of the summer moon.”
“She is well.” Nevil was not expansive. He knew the man had other things to talk of, and he wanted him to talk.
“Ah. And all the friends of my white brother?”
The face smiled, but the eyes were keenly alight.
“They are well. And Rosebud——”