"What would my brother have?" commenced he with the turbaned head,
uttering the guttural sounds in the low, soothing tones of friendship, and
even of affection. "What troubles the Great Sachem of the Narragansetts?
His thoughts seem uneasy. I think there is more before his eye, than one
whose sight is getting dim can see. Doth he behold the spirit of the brave
Miantonimoh, who died, like a dog, beneath the blows of cowardly Pequots
and false-tongued Yengeese? Or does his heart swell, with longing, to see
the scalps of treacherous Pale-faces hanging at his belt? Speak, my son;
the hatchet hath long been buried in the path between our villages, and
thy words will enter the ears of friend."
"I do not see the spirit of my father," returned the young Sachem; "he is
afar off, in the hunting-grounds of just warriors. My eyes are too weak to
look over so many mountains, and across so many rivers. He is chasing the
moose in grounds where there are no briars; he needeth not the sight of a
young man to tell him which way the trail leadeth. Why should I look at
the place where the Pequot and the Pale-face took his life? The fire which
scorched this hill hath blackened the spot, and I can no longer find the
marks of blood.
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