"It has been won by Waubeno," said Jasper. "I would be unjust not to say that all have been faithful, but Waubeno has been the most faithful of all." Waubeno sat like a statue. He did not lift his eyes. "Waubeno," said the agent, "you have heard what your teacher has said. The medal is yours. Here it is. You have reason to be proud of it. Waubeno, arise." Waubeno arose. The agent held out the medal to him. "Will you let me look at the medal?" said the boy. The medal was handed to him. He examined it. He did not smile, or show any emotion. His look was indifferent and stoical. What was passing in his mind? "The Indian chief is burying his hatchet, in the picture on this side of the medal," he said, slowly. "Yes," said the Indian agent, "he is a good chief." "The picture on this side represents Washington, you say?" "Yes--Washington, the Father of his Country." "He has a sword by his side, general, has he not? See." "Yes, Waubeno, he has a sword by his side." "He is a good chief, too?" "Yes, Waubeno." "Then why does he not bury his sword? I do not want the medal. What is good for the red chief should be as good for the white chief. I would be unlike my father to take a mean thing like that." He stood like a statue, with curled lip and a fiery eye. The agent looked queerly at Jasper. He had nothing more to say. He took back the medal and went away. When he had gone, Waubeno said to Jasper: "Pardon, brother; _he_ is not _the_ man--my promise to my father holds. They teach well, but they do not do well: it is the doing that speaks to the heart. The chief that buried his hatchet is a plumb fool, else the white chief would do so too. I have spoken!" He sat down in silence and looked out upon the lake, on which the waves were breaking into foam in the purple distances. His face had an injured look, and his eyes glowed. He arose at last and raised his hand, and said: "I will pay them all some day!--" Then he turned to Jasper and marked his disappointed face, and added: "I will be true to you. Waubeno will be true to you." CHAPTER XII. THE WHITE INDIAN OF CHICAGO. One morning, as Jasper threw aside the curtain of skins that answered for a door to his cabin, a strange sight met his eyes. In the clearing between the cabin and the lake stood the tall form of an Indian. It was the most noble and beautiful form that he had ever seen, and the Indian's face and hands were white. Jasper stood silent. The white Indian bent his eyes upon him, and the two looked in surprise at each other. The Indian's eyes were dark, and like the eyes of the native races; but his nose was Roman, and his skin English, with a slight brown tinge. His hair was long and curly, and tinged with brown. "Waubeno," said Jasper, "who is that?" Waubeno came to the entrance of the cabin, and said: "The white Indian. _They_ bring good. Speak to him. It is a good sign."