“While the hatchet is below the earth,” replied the youth, in the low, musical accent of his tribe, “Wingenund will sit by his sister and listen to her wisdom; he will go out with War–Eagle and bring back the skin of the antelope or the doe for her apparel, the meat of the deer and the bison for her food; he will open his ears to the counsel of the Black Father, and will throw a thick blanket over thoughts of strife and blood. But if the Washashee (the Osage) bears a forked tongue (here the youth sank his voice to a whisper of deep meaning),—if he loosens the scalp–knife while his hand is on the poacan[30]—if the trail of the Dahcotah is found near our village, Wingenund must be awake: he is not a child: the young men will hear his voice, and the old men shall say, ‘He is the son of his father.’ It is enough. Let my sister eat the meat that War–Eagle has sent her: for three suns Wingenund tastes not food.” So saying, the lad threw his robe over his shoulder and left the tent. Prairie–bird gazed long and thoughtfully on the spot where her brother’s retreating figure had disappeared; she felt grieved that all the lessons and truths of Christianity which she had endeavoured to instil into his mind were unable to change the current of his Indian blood: she had hoped to see him become a civilised man and a convert, and, through his amiable character, and the weight of his name, to win over many others of the Lenapé tribe. In addition to this disappointment, she was alarmed at the purport of his parting words: he had hinted at some treachery on the part of their Osage allies, and that a trail of the Dahcotahs had been seen near the encampment. These subjects of anxiety, added to the excitement which her feelings had lately undergone, so completely engrossed the maiden’s attention, that, although the corn–cakes were of the sweetest kind, and the venison of the most delicate flavour, the basket of provisions remained untouched on the table when Paul Müller entered the tent. His brow was grave and thoughtful, but his countenance relaxed into its usual benevolent expression, as his affectionate pupil sprang forward to greet and welcome him. “Dear father, I am so glad you are come!” she exclaimed; “I have been waiting for you most impatiently, and I have been in need of your aid.” “I heard, my child, as I walked through the village, that you had been tending the wounds of a boy much hurt by a horse; was the hurt beyond your skill?” “Not exactly,” she replied, hesitating. “It was needful that blood should flow from his arm; and, as you were not there, I was forced to ask the assistance of Netis—that is, of Reginald.” “Well,” said the missionary, smiling, “I hope he proved a skilful leech?” “He would not allow me to look on,” she replied: “but, though it was his first trial, he drew the blood, and stanched it, as skilfully as you could have done it yourself; and then he walked with me to the tent.”