A storm rose toward night, and I heard the knocking of the rain on the
skin roof above me, and thought of the woman traveling northward in the
Iroquois canoes. Starling was with her. I lay with tight-clenched
hands.
The storm swelled high. I asked that the mat be dropped from before
the door that I might see the lightning, and while I watched it
Outchipouac slipped in. He felt me over, and patted my moist skin
approvingly. Then he sat by my side and began to talk.
His talk at first was a chant, a saga, a recitation of the glories of
his ancestors. The Malhominis had been a proud race,--now they were
dwindled to this village of eighty braves. He crooned long tales of
famine, of tribal bickerings, of ambuscade and defeat; his voice
rustled monotonously like wind in dried grass.
Then his tone rose. He spoke of the present, its possibilities. The
Iroquois league was a scourge, a pestilence. Could it be abolished,
the western nations would return to health. Security would reign, and
tribal laws be respected. The French would be friends,
partners,--never masters,--and a golden age would descend upon the
west. It was the gospel that I had cried in the wilderness, but
phrased in finer imagery than mine.
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