Always repulsive in his looks, his present dress was not
calculated to improve him. He wore mourning for his enemy, whom he
had killed.
His face was painted perfectly black; nothing but the whites of his eyes
relieved the universal darkness. His blanket was torn and old--his hair
unbraided, and on the top of his head he wore a knot of swan's down.
Every mark of grief or respect he could have shown a dead brother, he
now assumed in honor of the man whom he had hated--whose life he had
destroyed--who had belonged to the hateful tribe which had ever been the
enemy of his nation.
He looked very important as he puffed away, now watching Harpstenah, who
appeared to be unconscious of his presence, now fixing his eyes on her
mother, who was busily employed mending mocassins.
Having finished smoking; he used a fan which was attached to the other
end of his pipe-stem. It was a very warm day, and the perspiration that
was bursting from his forehead mingled with the black paint and slowly
found its way down his face.
"Where is your husband?" at length he asked of the mother.
Pages:
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319