"Be brave," he said. "The bodies of our people are wasted and destroyed with strange diseases not to be healed by our medicine. Our tribes are driven from their farms, their fisheries, and their hunting grounds, crowded into the west, forced to make war against each other in order to get meat, resorting in despair to savage crimes and eating human flesh, our wild herds slaughtered, grass eaten, lands stolen, faith betrayed, until only a last remnant shall be left on the earth."
"On earth," Rain answered bravely. "But we are a spirit-race which cannot die."
Again the sacred woman Thunder Feather sent up her desolate cry for the lost nations.
But Hiawatha clasped Rain to his heart. "I love your courage," he said under his breath, "but still I warn you never to let there be anger in your heart against the white man or towards your husband. Promise me."
"I promise."
"Catherine," said Hiawatha, "Storm, Rain, Thunder Feather, I tell you on this Easter morning: The seed is not quickened except it die, and the race crucified shall rise again."
Once more the wailing of the old priestess shook their hearts, and she began to sing the death-song of her race.
Beware, ye base, relentless Ghost Invaders!
I see your bones lie naked on the prairie,
And such a frightful Death as yet you know not
Shall flap his wings in triumph o'er your women—
So shall your black deeds make your souls accursed
And God shall blast your spirits to destruction!
"Oh! Thunder Feather," said Hiawatha gently, "bad words come back like fleas to bite you in bed. You make your nights all scratches. Cover your head with your robe, and pray the Spirit Porcupine to smooth your quills, my dear.
"It is lucky for you, Storms-all-of-a-sudden, that in the Blackfoot custom a son-in-law and mother-in-law are never allowed to meet, so if your wife's prickly mother tries to haunt you, tell Thunder Feather to mind her manners."