She Dances Very Slowly
"Who calls the Roll of the Dead?
Who opens the door?
The Fire in the West burns red,
But our fire-place burns no more!
Thendara—Thendara no more!"
It was plain to me that my Indians meant to make a night of it—even those who, dog weary, had but now returned with me from the futile brant chase and sat eating their samp.
The French trappers squatted in a row, smoking their pipes and looking on with that odd sympathy for any savage rite, which, I think, partly explains French success among all Indians.
Firelight glimmered red on their weather-ravaged faces, on their gaudy fringes and moccasins.
Near them, lolling in the warm young grass, sprawled Nick and Godfrey. I sat down by them, my back against a log. My Saguenay crept to my side. I gave him to eat, and, for my own supper, ate slowly a handful of parched corn, watching my young Oneidas around the fire, where they moved in their slow dance, singing and boasting of their first scalps taken.
The little maid of Askalege came and seated herself close to me on my right.
"I am weary," she murmured, letting her head fall back against the log.
"Tell me," said I in English, "is there any reason why this Saguenay, who has proved himself a real man and no wolf, should not sing his own scalp-song among our Oneidas?"
"None," she repeated. "The Yellow Leaf is a real man."