They wished the sun to shine on us. They gave a large marble as red as
the sun.
They wished the rain of heaven to wash away hatred. They gave a chain
of wampum.
And so on and on and on. They gave belts, beavers, trinkets. They had
peace in their mouths and kindness in their hearts. They desired to
tie up the hatchet, to sweep the road between the French and themselves
free from blood. But with that clause they gave no belt. They made no
mention of the English prisoners, and they desired to close their
friendly visit and to go home.
Cadillac looked at them with contempt. He was always too choleric to
hide his mind, and he answered with little pretense at civility. He
gave them permission to go home, and sent a knife by them to their
kindred. It was not for war, he told them, but that they might cut the
veil that hung before their eyes, and see things as they really were.
He left their belts lying on the floor, and dismissed the council. He
motioned to me to follow, and we went at once to his room.
And alone in his room we looked at each other with relief. We had
gained one point, and though the road was long ahead, we could breathe
for a moment. We had not healed the sore, but it was covered,
cauterized.
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