“What says the Black Father? Is the storm to break, or will the sun shine again?”
“The Great Spirit only knows,” replied the missionary; “if the sun shines, we will be thankful; if the storm falls, we will wrap round us the cloak of patience.”
A fierce gleam shot from the young chief’s eye, but he spoke not a word until Tamenund addressed him thus:—“What says War–Eagle? let him speak.”
“The snows of many winters are on my father’s forehead; the Black Father has learnt wisdom from the Great Spirit: it is more fitting for War–Eagle to listen than to speak,” replied the young man, curbing the angry thoughts that glowed in his breast.
“Nay, my son,” said the missionary, “let War–Eagle speak, and his saying be afterwards weighed by the aged heads.”
War–Eagle then proceeded to explain how Wingenund, in returning from the turkey–pen, had caught a glimpse of a distant figure, whom he knew at a glance to belong to another tribe. Hastily concealing himself among the bushes, he waited till the strange Indian passed, and then resolving to watch him, crept stealthily on his trail.
Having made his way to a hollow in the thickest part of the forest, he sat down on the stump of an alder–tree, where he made and twice repeated a low signal whistle, which was soon answered by another Indian, who approached in an opposite direction, and in whom, to his great surprise, Wingenund recognised Mahéga. He was not near enough to overhear their conversation, neither was he aware whether they spoke in the Delaware tongue; but after conversing in a low tone for some minutes, they separated, and Wingenund again put himself on the trail of the stranger; the latter frequently stopped in his course, looked round and listened, but the youth was too practised and sagacious to be baffled by these precautions, and finally succeeded in tracking the object of his pursuit to an encampment containing ten or a dozen armed Indians, whom he knew at once to form a war–party, but could not decide to what tribe they belonged; he succeeded, however, in securing a mocassin which one of them had dropped, and returned unperceived to the Delaware village.
Such was the outline of the occurrences now rapidly sketched by War–Eagle; and in concluding his narrative, he held up the mocassin above mentioned, and presented it to the aged chief. The latter examined it for a moment in silence, and restoring it to the warrior, pronounced, in a low guttural tone, the word “Dahcotah.”
“Yes,” said the War–Eagle, in a deep whisper, indicative of the indignant passion that boiled within; “yes, the Dahcotah is in the woods; he prowls like a prairie–wolf. The Great Spirit has made him a dog, and if he sets his foot on the hunting–ground of the Lenapé, let not his wife complain if she looks along his path in vain, and strikes her breast, saying, ‘The wife of the Dahcotah is a widow!’ But the Evil Spirit has crept into the heart of the Washashee, a snake is in the council–chamber of the Lenapé, and lies are on the tongue of Mahéga! Is it enough, or must War–Eagle speak more?”