They watched the result with increasing interest, but with a coldness of demeanour that concealed the nature of their inquietude.
From this state of embarrassment, and as it might readily have proved of disorganisation, the tribe was unexpectedly relieved by the decision of the one most interested in the success of the aged chief’s designs.
During the whole of the foregoing scene, it would have been difficult to have traced a single distinct emotion in the lineaments of the captive.
He had heard his release proclaimed, with the same indifference as the order to bind him to the stake.
But now, that the moment had arrived when it became necessary to make his election, he spoke in a way to prove that the fortitude, which had bought him so distinguished a name, had in no degree deserted him.
“My father is very old, but he has not yet looked upon every thing,” said Hard-Heart, in a voice so clear as to be heard by all in presence. “He has never seen a buffaloe change to a bat. He will never see a Pawnee become a Sioux!”
There was a suddenness, and yet a calmness in the manner of delivering this decision, which assured most of the auditors that it was unalterable.
The heart of Le Balafre, however, was yearning towards the youth, and the fondness of age was not so readily repulsed.
Reproving the burst of admiration and triumph, to which the boldness of the declaration, and the freshened hopes of revenge had given rise, by turning his gleaming eye around the band, the veteran again addressed his adopted child, as if his purpose was not to be denied.
“It is well,” he said; “such are the words a brave should use, that the warriors may see his heart.
The day has been when the voice of Le Balafre was loudest among the lodges of the Konzas.
But the root of a white hair is wisdom.
My child will show the Tetons that he is brave, by striking their enemies.
Men of the Dahcotahs, this is my son!”
The Pawnee hesitated a moment, and then stepping in front of the chief, he took his hard and wrinkled hand, and laid it with reverence on his head, as if to acknowledge the extent of his obligation.
Then recoiling a step, he raised his person to its greatest elevation, and looked upon the hostile band, by whom he was environed, with an air of loftiness and disdain, as he spoke aloud, in the language of the Siouxes—
“Hard-Heart has looked at himself, within and without.
He has thought of all he has done in the hunts and in the wars.
Every where he is the same.
There is no change.
He is in all things a Pawnee.
He has struck so many Tetons that he could never eat in their lodges.
His arrows would fly backwards; the point of his lance would be on the wrong end; their friends would weep at every whoop he gave; their enemies would laugh.
Do the Tetons know a Loup?
Let them look at him again.
His head is painted; his arm is flesh; his heart is rock.
When the Tetons see the sun come from the Rocky Mountains, and move towards the land of the Pale-faces, the mind of Hard-Heart will soften, and his spirit will become Sioux.
Until that day, he will live and die a Pawnee.”
A yell of delight, in which admiration and ferocity were strangely mingled, interrupted the speaker, and but too clearly announced the character of his fate.
The captive awaited a moment, for the commotion to subside, and then turning again to Le Balafre, he continued, in tones conciliating and kind, as if he felt the propriety of softening his refusal, in a manner not to wound the pride of one who would so gladly be his benefactor—
“Let my father lean heavier on the fawn of the Dahcotahs,” he said: “she is weak now, but as her lodge fills with young, she will be stronger.
See,” he added, directing the eyes of the other to the earnest countenance of the attentive trapper; “Hard-Heart is not without a grey-head to show him the path to the blessed prairies.
If he ever has another father, it shall be that just warrior.”
Le Balafre turned away in disappointment from the youth, and approached the stranger, who had thus anticipated his design.
The examination between these two aged men was long, mutual, and curious.
It was not easy to detect the real character of the trapper, through the mask which the hardships of so many years had laid upon his features, especially when aided by his wild and peculiar attire.
Some moments elapsed before the Teton spoke, and then it was in doubt whether he addressed one like himself, or some wanderer of that race who, he had heard, were spreading themselves, like hungry locusts, throughout the land.
“The head of my brother is very white,” he said; “but the eye of Le Balafre is no longer like the eagle’s.
Of what colour is his skin?”
“The Wahcondah made me like these you see waiting for a Dahcotah judgment; but fair and foul has coloured me darker than the skin of a fox.
What of that!
Though the bark is ragged and riven, the heart of the tree is sound.”
“My brother is a Big-knife!
Let him turn his face towards the setting sun, and open his eyes.
Does he see the salt lake beyond the mountains?”
“The time has been, Teton, when few could see the white on the eagle’s head farther than I; but the glare of fourscore and seven winters has dimmed my eyes, and but little can I boast of sight in my latter days.
Does the Sioux think a Pale-face is a god, that he can look through hills?”
“Then let my brother look at me.
I am nigh him, and he can see that I am a foolish Red-man.
Why cannot his people see every thing, since they crave all?”