The servants now busied themselves in spreading out our bear-skins. This completed, each retired to his couch, and in a short time a dead silence reigned throughout the building. CHAPTER IX. _An Old Warrior.—Indian Dogs.—A Night Scene._ About midnight I awoke; it was intensely cold, so I rose up and picked my way over prostrated forms to the fire. An old Indian was seated by it; his hair was snowy white, and hung in long locks upon his shoulders. There were several scars traced upon his face, and even by that faint light, the marks of deep wounds were visible upon his breast. His robe had fallen from his shoulders, leaving bare the withered wreck, of what must once have been an Herculean frame. I did not know him, nor could he have ranked among their chiefs. His cheek was resting in the palm of his hand; his eyes were intently fixed upon the burning brands which flickered up a dying, broken blaze. In his right hand he held a small piece of wood, with which he raked together the coals, though seemingly unconscious of what he was doing. In front of him lay an uncouth-looking tomahawk, made of wood, and across it his otter-skin pouch, and stone pipe: the symbols of war and peace thrown together, in a manner which seemed to denote that to their owner, the day of strife was past. His look was fixed upon the brands, but his mind, busied in its own wanderings, took no note of the things before his eyes. Could he be meditating upon the probable results of the coming of the white men among them? Could he be sitting there buried in his own musings, and prophet-like, looking through the dim vista of futurity? Could he see his own chivalric race, gradually withering at the approach of the whites, and the descendants of those, whose hearts now beat as free as the eagle’s, crawling over the earth, a stigma to their name, and a curse to themselves? I could not prevent these thoughts from stealing over me, as I sat opposite to him, gazing upon his face, so noble and dignified, even in its ruin. Upon my first approach, he had not observed me, but after a short time, he raised his head, and perceiving me, reached out his hand, while a friendly smile played over his face. Then pointing to his scars, he endeavoured by signs to narrate to me an account of the different war expeditions, in which these had been received. Each wound had a tale of its own, and each scar told of a different battle. After spending some time in telling his story, he lighted his pipe, and first drawing a few puffs he passed it to me with the usual word of politeness, (Loovah.)[H] I puffed for a few moments, and returned it to him, he then inhaled a few draughts of the smoke, and again reached it to me, and I, after again smoking, reached it to him. This operation of smoking and passing it to each other, continued until the pipe was empty; then knocking the ashes from its bowl, he raised himself upon his feet, and taking up his pouch