“Wingenund knows not,” he replied; “but he heard the name that was taught to the Osage, as the battle–cry of his new allies.”
“E–chĭ–pētă!” shouted the impetuous White–bull, who had already recognised in the youth’s description one of the warriors of the Black–feet, the hereditary enemies of his tribe.
“It was not so,” replied Wingenund gravely. “Ka–in–na[86] was the name; it was twice spoken.”
A deep murmur ran round the assembly, White–bull exchanged a significant glance with the nearest of his braves, and again a profound silence reigned throughout the assembly.
Mahéga now felt that the crisis of his fate was at hand, and that every thing must depend on his being able to throw discredit on the tale of Wingenund. This was not, however, an easy task, for he suspected Besha of a secret leaning to the Delaware side, while the fierce and lowering looks of the bystanders showed him how little was wanting to make the smothered flame burst forth.
These indications did not escape the aged chief, who spoke a few words in a serious and warning tone, the purport of which was to remind them that the present council was sacred to the Medicine, and was not to be desecrated by any violence or shedding of blood. He concluded by saying, “Let the Washashee speak for himself, and let Besha give his words truly, if he does not wish to have his ears cut off.”
Thus admonished, the horse–dealer lent all his attention to the Osage, who came forward to address the council with an imposing dignity of manner that almost made the most suspicious of his hearers doubt the truth of the accusations brought against him.
Being now in front of the semicircle, which was not more than twenty yards in width, he was directly opposite to Wingenund, who stood forward a few feet in advance of its other wing. The contrast offered by the stature and bearing of the accuser and the accused, the slight active frame, the youth and grace of the one, and the haughty air and gigantic bulk of the other, struck Ethelston so forcibly that he could not forbear whispering to Paul Müller, “Worthy father, does not the scene recall to mind the meeting between the Hebrew shepherd and the giant of Gath?”
“It does, my son; and I misjudge the looks of the Osage if they part hence without the shedding of blood. I have long studied his countenance, and, however skilfully he has subdued its expression, I can trace the full storm of passions raging within his breast.”