In a minute I was sunk in a heavy sleep.
I woke to see two men standing in the tent door. One was the chief
Onotawah, and the other a tall Indian who wore no war paint.
They came towards me, and the light fell on the face of the second. To
my amazement I recognized Shalah. He put a finger on his lip, and,
though my heart clamoured for news, I held my peace.
They squatted on a heap of skins and spoke in their own tongue. Then
Shalah addressed me in English.
"The maiden is safe, brother. There will be no more fighting at the
stockade. Those who assaulted us were of my own tribe, and yesterday I
reasoned with them."
Then he spoke to the chief, and translated for me.
"He says that you have endured the ordeal of the stake, and have slain
your enemy in fight, and that now you will go before the great Sachem
for his judgment. That is the custom of our people."
He turned to Onotawah again, and his tone was high and scornful. He
spoke as if he were the chief and the other were the minion, and, what
was strangest of all, Onotawah replied meekly. Shalah rose to his feet
and strode to the door, pointing down the glen with his hand. He seemed
to menace the other, his nostrils quivered with contempt, and his voice
was barbed with passion.
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