See," he
added, raising the fingers of his two hands before the eyes of his
attentive companion, "ten snows have come and melted, since there stood a
lodge of the Pale-faces on this hill. Conanchet was then a boy. His hand
had struck nothing but deer. His heart was full of wishes. By day he
thought of Pequot scalps, at night he heard the dying words of
Miantonimoh. Though slain by cowardly Pequots and lying Yengeese, his
father came with the night into his wigwam, to talk to his son. 'Does the
child of so many great Sachems grow big?' would he say; 'is his arm
getting strong, his foot light, his eye quick, his heart valiant? Will
Conanchet be like his fathers?--when will the young Sachem of the
Narragansetts become a man?' Why should I tell my brother of these visits?
Metacom hath often seen the long line of Wampanoag Chiefs, in his sleep?
The brave Sachems sometimes enter into the heart of their son?"
The lofty-minded, though wily Philip struck his hand heavily upon his
naked breast, as he answered--
"They are always here. Metacom has no soul but the spirit of his fathers!"
"When he was tired of silence, the murdered Miantonimoh spoke aloud,"
continued Conanchet, after permitting the customary courteous pause to
succeed the emphatic words of his companion.
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