In a moment they would emerge from among the flowering trees. Auguste saw a log fence ahead. The fence surrounded a low hill covered with close-cropped grass, leading up to the house. One large old maple tree shaded the south side. He checked his pony. He could go no farther. "What is it?" Pierre asked him. "I cannot," Auguste said. "I cannot go there." He felt a quaver in his voice and his lips trembling, and he held himself rigid. "Why not, Auguste?" Pierre said softly. "I do not know what to do here. I have never seen such a place as this. I will do foolish things. All those people will laugh at me. You will not want me for a son." "Let us wait," said Pierre. "Get down from your horse." Biting his lip, Auguste dismounted. "We shall sit here," said Pierre. They sat, facing each other. Auguste saw people approaching through the straight rows of trees. Pierre saw them, too, and waved them away. They sat for a long time in silence while their horses grazed nearby. Auguste held his misery in until he felt calmer. He looked at Pierre and nodded to say that he was in control of himself. Pierre nodded back. Auguste looked at the petal-covered ground, feeling crushed. "All this is strange to you," Pierre said. "Yes," said Auguste. "And it is not foolish to fear. There are some people here who will hate you just because you are a red man. There are people who will be afraid of you. But there are dangers in the life you come from--fire and flood, sickness, bears and wolves, the Sioux and Osage, enemies of your people. You fear those things, but you have been taught how to live with those dangers. There are other people here, people like myself, who will care for you and protect you and teach you how to live with the dangers of the pale eyes' world. You must come to know these people who will help you. I want you to be glad you came from Saukenuk to Victoire." Auguste did not answer. They sat in silence for a while. Then Pierre spoke again. "The pale eyes are here, Auguste, and you must learn to live with us." Auguste sighed and settled down again. He listened to the buzzing of locusts rise and fall. _If my vision of this man meant something, then come to me now, White Bear, and tell me what I must do._ He carried a handful of bits of magic mushroom in a saddlebag, but several times since his spirit journey the White Bear had spoken to him without the help of the mushroom and without his mind leaving his body. All he needed to do, sometimes, was sit quietly and listen. He waited now, sometimes looking at Pierre, sometimes looking at the twigs and moss and grass on the ground. _Perhaps no spirit can reach me here in the land of the pale eyes._ He was about to give up and get to his feet. He would beg Pierre to let him go back to the Sauk. Then a voice spoke deep and clear in his mind, and it was not his voice. _Go and meet your grandfather._