The difference in the manner of the
chiefs was not however sufficiently strong to be remarked by Submission,
who was about to resume the discourse, when the new-comer moved past the
cluster of warriors in the encampment, and took his seat near them, on a
stone so low, that the water laved his feet. As usual there was no
greeting between the Indians for some moments, the three appearing to
regard the arrival as a mere thing of course. But the uneasiness of
Metacom prompted a communication sooner than common.
"Mohtucket," he said, in the language of their tribe, "hath lost the
trail of his friends. We thought the crows of the pale-men were picking
his bones!"
"There was no scalp at his belt, and Mohtucket was ashamed to be seen
among the young men with an empty hand."
"He remembered that he had too often come back without striking a dead
enemy," returned Metacom, about whose firm mouth lurked an expression of
ill-concealed contempt. "Has he now touched a warrior?"
The Indian, who was merely a man of the inferior class, held up the trophy
which hung at his girdle to the examination of his chief.
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