On his Iron face there was no flicker of welcome or
recognition, but he shook hands silently with the two of us, and struck
a blow on a dry gourd. Instantly three warriors appeared, and took
their place by his side. Then all of us sat down and a pipe was lit and
handed by the chief to Ringan. He took a puff and gave it to one of the
other Indians, who handed it to me. With that ceremony over, the tongue
of the chief seemed to be unloosed. "The Sachem comes," he said, and an
old man sat himself down beside us.
He was a strange figure to meet in an Indian camp. A long white beard
hung down to his middle, and his unshorn hair draped his shoulders like
a fleece. His clothing was of tanned skin, save that he had a belt of
Spanish leather, and on his feet he wore country shoes and not the
Indian moccasins. The eyes in his head were keen and youthful, and
though he could not have been less than sixty he carried himself with
the vigour of a man in his prime. Below his shaggy locks was a high,
broad forehead, such as some college professor might have borne who had
given all his days to the philosophies. He seemed to have been
disturbed in reading, for he carried in his hand a little book with a
finger marking his place.
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