"It is slow with many in council," the chief said, in his own smooth-flowing tongue. "You, white man, and I can settle matters quickly. Quicker than these wise men of my father." There was a flash of impatience in his speaking eyes. Nevil nodded approval. "They think much before they speak," he replied, in the language in which he had been addressed. He, too, smiled; and in their manner toward each other it was plain the excellent understanding they were on. "Sit, my white brother, we have many things for talk. Even we, like those others, must sit if we would pow-wow well. It is good. Sit." Little Black Fox laughed shortly, conceiving himself superior in thought to the older generation of wise men. He was possessed of all the vanity of his years. They both returned to the ground, and the chief kicked together the embers of the council-fire. "Tell me, brother, of Wanaha," this still unproved warrior went on, in an even, indifferent voice; "she who was the light of our father's eyes; she who has the wisdom of the rattlesnake, and the gentle heart of the summer moon." "She is well." Nevil was not expansive. He knew the man had other things to talk of, and he wanted him to talk. "Ah. And all the friends of my white brother?" The face smiled, but the eyes were keenly alight. "They are well. And Rosebud----" "Ah." "She grows fairer every day." There was a truly Indian pause. The fire sputtered and cast shadows upon the dark, bare walls. The two men gazed thoughtfully into the little flame which vauntingly struggled to rear itself in the dense atmosphere. At last the Indian spoke. "That man who killed my father is a great brave." "Yes," nodded Nevil, with a reflective smile in his pale eyes. "And Rosebud is a ripe woman. Beautiful as the flower which is her name." "Hah!" Then the Indian said slowly with an assumed indifference, "She will be his squaw. This white brave." "That is how they say." It might have puzzled Nevil to apply names to those represented by "they." "He is a great brave, truly. He fought for her. He killed your father. That is how these things go. She is for him surely." A frown had settled on the fierce young chief's face. "My father was old," he said. Nevil glanced at the speaker out of the corner of his eyes, and then continued his watch on the flame still struggling so ardently to devour the half-green wood. He knew when to hold his tongue. "Yes," the young man went on. "My father was a wise chief, but he was old--too old. Why did he keep the white girl alive?" "He took her for you. You only had fifteen summers. The white girl had eleven or thereabouts. He was wise. It was good med'cine." Then the chief stirred himself. And Nevil, who lost no movement on the other's part, detected the restless action of one who chafes under his thought. Little Black Fox prefixed his next remark with another short laugh.