University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

It wanted about an hour to sunset,—or sun-down, to use
our common Americanism—when we all left the new quarters
of our red brethren, in order to visit the huts. As the
moment approached, it was easy to trace in the Indians the
evidence of strong interest; mingled, as we fancied, with a
little awe. Several of the chiefs had improved the intervening
time, to retouch the wild conceits that they had previously
painted on their visages, rendering their countenances
still more appalling. Flintyheart, in particular, was conspicuous
in his grim embellishments; though Prairiefire had
not laid any veil between the eye and his natural hue.

As the course of my narrative will now render it necessary
to relate conversations that occurred in languages and
dialects of which I know literally nothing, it may be well to
say here, once for all, that I got as close a translation of everything
that passed, as it was possible to obtain, from Manytongues;
and wrote it all down, either on the spot, or immediately
after returning to the Nest. This explanation may be necessary

in order to prevent some of those who may read
this manuscript, from fancying that I am inventing.

The carriage of my grandmother had left the door, filled
with its smiling freight, several minutes before we took up
our line of march. This last, however, was not done without
a little ceremony, and some attention to order. As Indians
rarely march except in what is called “Indian file,”
or singly, each man following in the footsteps of his leader,
such was the mode of advancing adopted on the present occasion.
The Prairiefire led the line, as the oldest chief, and
the one most distinguished in council. Flintyheart was
second, while the others were arranged by some rule of
precedency that was known to themselves. As soon as the
line had formed, it commenced its march; my uncle, the
interpreter, and myself walking at the side of Prairiefire,
while Miller, followed by half-a-dozen of the curious from
the Nest House and the farm, followed in the rear.

It will be remembered that John had been sent to the hut
to announce the intended visit. His stay had been much
longer than was anticipated; but when the procession had
gone about half the distance it was to march, it was met by
this faithful domestic, on his return. The worthy fellow
wheeled into line, on my flank, and communicated what he
had to say while keeping up with the column.

“To own the truth, Mr. Hugh,” he said, “the old man
was more moved by hearing that about fifty Indians had
come a long distance to see him—”

“Seventeen—you should have said seventeen, John; that
being the exact number.”

“Is it, sir? Well, I declare that I thought there might
be fifty—I once thought of calling 'em forty, sir, but it then
occurred to me that it might not be enough.” All this time
John was looking over his shoulder to count the grave-looking
warriors who followed in a line; and satisfied of his
mistake, one of the commonest in the world for men of his
class, that of exaggeration, he resumed his report. “Well,
sir, I do believe you are right, and I have been a little hout.
But old Sus was quite moved, sir, when I told him of the
intended visit, and so I stayed to help the old gentleman to
dress and paint; for that nigger, Yop, is of no more use
now, you know, sir, than if he had never lived in a gentleman's

family at all. It must have been hawful times, sir,
when the gentry of York had nothing but niggers to serve
'em, sir.”

“We did pretty well, John, notwithstanding,” unswered
my uncle, who had a strong attachment to the old black
race, that once so generally filled all the menial stations of
the country, as is apt to be the case with all gentlemen
of fifty; “we did pretty well, notwithstanding. Jaaf, however,
never acted strictly as a body-servant, though he was
my grandfather's own man.”

“Well, sir, if there had been nobody but Yop at the hut,
Sus would never have been decently dressed and painted for
this occasion. As it is, I hope that you will be satisfied,
sir, for the old gentleman looks remarkably well;—Indian
fashion, you know, sir.”

“Did the Onondago ask any questions?”

“Why, you know how it is with him in that particular,
Mr. Hugh. He's a very silent person, is Susquesus; most
remarkable so when he 'as any one has can entertain him
with conversation. I talked most of the time myself, sir,
has I commonly does when I pays him a wisit. Indians is
remarkably silent, in general, I believe, sir.”

“And whose idea was it to paint and dress—yours, or
the Onondago's?”.

“Why, sir, I supposes the hidear to be Indian, by origin,
though in this case it was my surgestion. Yes, sir, I
surgested the thought; though I will not take it on myself
to say Sus had not some hinclination that way, even before
I 'inted my hopinion.”

“Did you think of the paint?” put in uncle Ro. “I do
not remember to have seen the Trackless in his paint these
thirty years. I once asked him to paint and dress on a
Fourth of July; it was about the time you were born,
Hugh—and I remember the old fellow's answer as well as
if it were given yesterday. `When the tree ceases to bear
fruit,' was the substance of his reply, `blossoms only remind
the observer of its uselessness.”'

“I have heard that Susquesus was once considered very
eloquent, even for an Indian.”

“I remember him to have had some such reputation,
though I will not answer for its justice. Occasionally, I

have heard strong expressions in his brief, clipping manner
of speaking English,—but, in common, he has been content
to be simple and taciturn. I remember to have heard
my father say that when be first made the acquaintance of
Susquesus, and that must have been quite sixty years since,
the old man had great apprehension of being reduced to
the mortifying necessity of making baskets and brooms;
but, his dread on that subject once removed, he had ever
after seemed satisfied and without care.”

“Without care is the condition of those who have least,
I believe, sir. It would not be an easy matter for the
government of New York to devise ways and means to
deprive Sus of his farms, either by instituting suits for title,
destroying quarter-sales, laying taxes, or resorting to any
other of the ingenious expedients known to the Albany
politics.”

My uncle did not answer for quite a minute; when he
did, it was thoughtfully and with great deliberation of
manner.

“Your term of `Albany Politics' has recalled to my
mind,” he said, “a consideration that has often forced itself
upon my reflections. There is doubtless an advantage—
nay, there may be a necessity for cutting up the local affairs
of this country, by entrusting their management to so many
local governments; but there is, out of all question, one
great evil consequent on it. When legislators have the
great affairs of state on their hands, the making of war and
peace, the maintaining of armies, and the control of all those
interests which connect one country with another, the mind
gets to be enlarged, and with it the character and disposition
of the man. But, bring men together, who must act,
or appear incapable of acting, and set them at work upon
the smaller concerns of legislation, and it's ten to one but
they betray the narrowness of their education by the narrowness
of their views. This is the reason of the vast difference
that every intelligent man knows to exist between
Albany and Washington.”

“Do you then think our legislators so much inferior to
those of Europe?”

“Only, as they are provincial; which nine in ten necessarily
are, since nine Americans in ten, even among the

educated classes, are decidedly provincial. This term `provincial'
covers quite one-half of the distinctive sins of the
country, though many laugh at a deficiency, of which, in
the nature of things, they can have no notion, as purely
a matter of the imagination. The active communications
of the Americans certainly render them surprisingly little
obnoxious to such a charge, for their age and geographical
position. These last disadvantages produce effects, nevertheless,
that are perhaps unavoidable. When you have had
an opportunity of seeing something of the society of the
towns, for instance, after your intercourse with the world of
Europe, you will understand what I mean, for it is a difference
much more readily felt than described. Provincialism,
however, may be defined as a general tendency to
the narrow views which mark a contracted association, and
an ignorance of the great world—not in the sense of station
solely, but in the sense of liberality, intelligence, and a
knowledge of all the varied interests of life. But, here we
are, at the hut.”

There we were, sure enough. The evening was delightful.
Susquesus had seated himself on a stool, on the green
sward that extended for some distance around the door of
his habitation, and where he was a little in shade, protected
from the strong rays of a setting, but June, sun. A tree
cast its shadow over his person. Jaaf was posted on one
side, as no doubt, he himself thought best became his colour
and character. It is another trait of human nature, that
while the negro affects a great contempt and aversion for the
red-man, the Indian feels his own mental superiority to the
domestic slave. I had never seen Susquesus in so grand
costume, as that in which he appeared this evening. Habitually
he wore his Indian vestments; the leggings, mocasin,
breech-piece, blanket or calico shirt, according to the
season; but I had never before seen him in his ornaments
and paint. The first consisted of two medals which bore
the images, the one of George III, the other of his grandfather—of
two more, bestowed by the agents of the republic;
of large rings in his ears, that dropped nearly to his shoulders,
and of bracelets formed of the teeth of some animal,
that, at first, I was afraid was a man. A tomahawk that
was kept as bright as friction could make it, and a sheathed

knife, were in his girdle, while his well-tried rifle stood leaning
against a tree; weapons that were now exhibited as
emblems of the past, since their owner could scarcely render
either very effective. The old man had used the paint
with unusual judgment for an Indian, merely tinging his
cheeks with a colour that served to give brightness to eyes
that had once been keen as intense expression could render
them, but which were now somewhat dimmed by age. In
other respects, nothing was changed in the customary neat
simplicity that reigned in and around the cabin, though Jaaf
had brought out, as if to sun, an old livery coat of his own,
that he had formerly worn, and a cocked hat, in which I
have been told he was wont actually to exhibit himself of
Sundays, and holidays; reminders of the superiority of a
“nigger” over an “Injin.”

Three or four rude benches, which belonged to the establishment
of the hut, were placed at a short distance in front
of Susquesus, in a sort of semicircle, for the reception of
his guests. Towards these benches, then, Prairiefire led the
way, followed by all the chiefs. Although they soon ranged
themselves in the circle, not one took his seat for fully a
minute. That time they all stood gazing intently, but reverently,
towards the aged man before them, who returned
their look, as steadily and intently as it was given. Then,
at a signal from their leader, who on this occasion was Prairiefire,
every man seated himself. This change of position,
however, did not cause the silence to be broken; but there
they all sat, for quite ten minutes, gazing at the Upright
Onondago, who, in his turn, kept his look steadily fastened
on his visiters. It was during this interval of silence that
the carriage of my grandmother drove up, and stopped just
without the circle of grave, attentive Indians, not one of
whom even turned his head to ascertain who or what caused
the interruption. No one spoke; my dear grandmother
being a profoundly attentive observer of the scene, while all
the bright faces around her, were so many eloquent pictures
of curiosity, blended with some gentler and better feelings,
exhibited in the most pleasing form of which humanity is
susceptible.

At length Susquesus himself arose, which he did with
great dignity of manner, and without any visible bodily

effort, and spoke. His voice was a little tremulous, I
thought, though more through feeling than age; but, on the
whole, he was calm, and surprisingly connected and clear
considering his great age. Of course, I was indebted to
Manytongues for the interpretation of all that passed.

“Brethren,” commenced Susquesus, “you are welcome.
You have travelled on a long, and crooked, and thorny path,
to find an old chief, whose tribe ought ninety summers ago
to have looked upon him as among the departed. I am
sorry no better sight will meet your eyes at the end of so
long a journey. I would make the path back toward the
setting sun broader and straighter if I knew how. But I
do not know how. I am old. The pine in the woods is
scarce older; the villages of the pale-faces, through so
many of which you have journeyed, are not half so old;
I was born when the white race were like the moose on the
hills; here and there one; now they are like the pigeons
after they have hatched their young. When I was a boy,
my young legs could never run out of the woods into a
clearing; now, my old legs cannot carry me into the woods,
they are so far off. Everything is changed in the land,
but the red-man's heart. That is like the rock which never
alters. My children, you are welcome.”

That speech, pronounced in the deep husky tones of extreme
old age, yet relieved by the fire of a spirit that was
smothered rather than extinct, produced a profound impression.
A low murmur of admiration passed among the
guests, though neither rose to answer, until a sufficient time
had seemed to pass, in which the wisdom that they had just
been listeners to might make its proper impression. When
this pause was thought to be sufficiently long to have produced
its effect, Prairiefire, a chief more celebrated in council
even than in the field, arose to answer. His speech,
freely translated, was in the following words.

“Father;—your words are always wise—they are always
true. The path between your wigwam and our villages
is a long one—it is a crooked path, and many thorns
and stones have been found on it. But all difficulties may
be overcome. Two moons ago, we were at one end of it;
now we are at the other end. We have come with two
notches on our sticks. One notch told us to go to the Great

Council House of the Pale-face, to see our great pale-face
Father—the other notch told us to come here, to see our
great Red Father. We have been to the great Council
House of the Pale-faces; we have seen Uncle Sam. His
arm is very long; it reaches from the salt lake, the water
of which we tried to drink, but it is too salt, to our own
lakes, near the setting sun, of which the water is sweet. We
never tasted water that was salt before, and we do not find
it pleasant. We shall never taste it again; it is not worth
while to come so far to drink water that is salt.

“Uncle Sam is a wise chief. He has many counsellors.
The council at his council-fire must be a great council—it
has much to say. Its words ought to have some good in
them, they are so many. We thought of our Red Father,
while listening to them, and wanted to come here. We
have come here. We are glad to find our Red Father still
alive and well. The Great Spirit loves a just Indian, and
takes care of him. A hundred winters, in his eyes, are like
a single winter. We are thankful to him for having led us
by the crooked and long path, at the end of which we have
found the Trackless—the Upright of the Onondagoes. I
have spoken.”

A gleam of happiness shot into the swarthy lineaments
of Susquesus, as he heard, in his own language, a well-merited
appellation that had not greeted his ears for a period
as long as the ordinary life of man. It was a title, a cognomen
that told the story of his connection with his tribe;
and neither years, nor distance, nor new scenes, nor new
ties, nor wars, nor strifes had caused him to forget the
smallest incident connected with that tale. I gazed at the
old man with awe, as his countenance became illuminated
by the flood of recollections that was rushing into it, through
the channel of his memory, and the expressive glance my
uncle threw at me, said how much he was impressed, also.
One of the faculties of Manytongues was to be able to interpret,
pari passu with the speaker; and, standing between
us and the carriage, he kept up, sentence by sentence, a low
accompaniment of each speech, so that none of us lost a
syllable of what was said.

As soon as Prairiefire resumed his seat, another silence
succeeded. It lasted several minutes, during which the only

audible sounds were various discontented grunts, accompanied
by suppressed mutterings on the part of old Jaaf, who
never could tolerate any Indian but his companion. That
the negro was dissatisfied with this extraordinary visit was
sufficiently apparent to us, but not one of all the red men
took heed of his deportment. Sus, who was nearest to him,
must have heard his low grumbling, but it did not induce
him to change his look from the countenances of those in
his front for a single moment. On the other hand, the visiters
themselves seemed totally unconscious of the negro's
presence, though in fact they were not, as subsequently appeared.
In a word, the Upright Onondago was the centre
of attraction for them, all other things being apparently forgotten
for the time.

At length there was a slight movement among the red-skins,
and another arose. This man was positively the
least well-looking of the whole party. His stature was lower
than that of the rest of the Indians; his form was meagre
and ungraceful—the last, at least, while his mind was in a
state of rest; and his appearance, generally, was wanting
in that nobleness of exterior which so singularly marked
that of every one of his companions. As I afterwards
learned, the name of this Indian was Eaglesflight, being so
called from the soaring character of the eloquence in which
he had been known to indulge. On the present occasion,
though his manner was serious and his countenance interested,
the spirit within was not heaving with any of its extraordinary
throes. Still, such a man could not rise to
speak, and avoid creating some slight sensation among his
expectant auditors. Guarded as are the red-men in general
on the subject of betraying their emotions, we could
detect something like a suppressed movement among his
friends when Eaglesflight stood erect. The orator commenced
in a low but solemn manner, his tones changing
from the deep, impressive guttural, to the gentle and pathetic,
in a way to constitute eloquence of itself. As I
listened, I fancied that never before did the human voice
seem to possess so much winning power. The utterance
was slow and impressive, as is usually the case with true
orators.

“The Great Spirit makes men differently,” commenced

Eaglesflight. “Some are like willows, that bend with the
breeze and are broken in the storm. Some are pines, with
slender trunks, few branches, and a soft wood. Now and
then there is an oak among them, which grows on the prairie,
stretching its branches a great way, and making a pleasant
shade. This wood is hard; it lasts a long time. Why
has the Great Spirit made this difference in trees? — why
does the Great Spirit make this difference in men? There
is a reason for it. He knows it, though we may not. What
he does is always right?

“I have heard orators at our Council Fires complain that
things should be as they are. They say that the land, and
the lakes, and the rivers, and the hunting-grounds, belong
to the red-man only, and that no other colour ought ever to
be seen there. The Great Spirit has thought otherwise, and
what he thinks happens. Men are of many colours. Some
are red, which is the colour of my father. Some are pale,
which is the colour of my friends. Some are black, which
is the colour of my father's friend. He is black, though old
age is changing his skin. All this is right; it comes from
the Great Spirit, and we must not complain.

“My father says he is very old — that the pine in the
woods is scarce older. We know it. That is one reason
why we have come so far to see him, though there is another
reason. My father knows what that other reason is;
so do we. For a hundred winters and summers, that reason
has not gone out of our minds. The old men have told it
to the young men; and the young men, when they have
grown older, have told it to their sons. In this way it has
reached our ears. How many bad Indians have lived in
that time, have died, and are forgotten! It is the good Indian
that lives longest in our memories. We wish to forget
that the wicked ever were in our tribes. We never forget
the good.

“I have seen many changes. I am but a child, compared
with my father; but I feel the cold of sixty winters
in my bones. During all that time, the red-men have been
travelling towards the setting sun. I sometimes think I
shall live to reach it! It must be a great way off, but the
man who never stops goes far. Let us go there, pale-faces
will follow. Why all this is, I do not know. My father is

wiser than his son, and he may be able to tell us. I sit
down to hear his answer.”

Although Eaglesflight had spoken so quietly, and concluded
in a manner so different from what I had expected,
there was a deep interest in what was now going on. The
particular reason why these red-men had come so far out
of their way to visit Susquesus had not yet been revealed,
as we all hoped would be the case; but the profound reverence
that these strangers, from the wilds of the far west,
manifested for our aged friend, gave every assurance that
when we did learn it, there would be no reason for disappointment.
As usual, a pause succeeded the brief address
of the last speaker; after which, Susquesus once more
arose, and spoke.

“My children,” he said, “I am very old. Fifty autumns
ago, when the leaves fell, I thought it was time for me to
pass on to the Happy Hunting-Grounds of my people, and
be a redskin again. But my name was not called. I have
been left alone here, in the midst of the pale-face fields,
and houses, and villages, without a single being of my own
colour and race to speak to. My head was almost grown
white. Still, as years came on my head, the spirit turned
more towards my youth. I began to forget the battles, and
hunts, and journeys of middle life, and to think of the
things seen when a young chief among the Onondagoes.
My day is now a dream, in which I dream of the past.
Why is the eye of Susquesus so far-seeing, after a hundred
winters and more? Can any one tell? I think not. We
do not understand the Great Spirit, and we do not understand
his doings. Here I am, where I have been for half
my days. That big wigwam is the wigwam of my best
friends. Though their faces are pale, and mine is red, our
hearts have the same colour. I never forget them — no,
not one of them. I see them all, from the oldest to the
youngest. They seem to be of my blood. This comes
from friendship, and many kindnesses. These are all the
pale-faces I now see. Red-men stand before my eyes in
all other places. My mind is with them.

“My children, you are young. Seventy winters are a
great many for one of you. It is not so with me. Why
I have been left standing alone here, near the hunting-grounds

of our fathers, is more than I can say. So it is,
and it is right. A withered hemlock is sometimes seen,
standing by itself, in the fields of the pale-faces. I am
such a tree. It is not cut down, because the wood is of no
use, and even the squaws do not like it to cook by. When
the winds blow, they seem to blow around it. It is tired of
standing there alone, but it cannot fall. That tree wishes
for the axe, but no man puts the axe to its root. Its time
has not come. So it is with me — my time has not come.

“Children, my days now are dreams of my tribe. I see
the wigwam of my father. It was the best in the village.
He was a chief, and venison was never scarce in his lodge.
I see him come off the war-path with many scalps on his
pole. He had plenty of wampum, and wore many medals.
The scalps on his pole were sometimes from red-men, sometimes
from pale-faces. He took them all himself. I see my
mother, too. She loved me as the she-bear loves her cubs.
I had brothers and sisters, and I see them, too. They
laugh and play, and seem happy. There is the spring
where we dipped up water in our gourds, and here is the
hill where we lay waiting for the warriors to come in from
the war-paths and the hunt. Everything looks pleasant to
me. That was a village of the Onondagoes, my own people,
and I loved them a hundred and twenty winters ago. I love
them now, as if the time were but one winter and one summer.
The mind does not feel time. For fifty seasons I
thought but little of my own people. My thoughts were on
the hunt and the war-path, and on the quarrels of the pale-faces,
with whom I lived. Now, I say again, I think most
of the past, and of my young days. It is a great mystery
why we can see things that are so far off so plainly, and
cannot see things that are so near by. Still, it is so.

“Children, you ask why the red-men keep moving to-wards
the setting sun, and why the pale-faces follow? You
ask if the place where the sun sets will be ever reached, and
if pale-men will go there to plough and to build, and to cut
down the trees. He that has seen what has happened,
ought to know what will happen again. I am very old, but
I see nothing new. One day is like another. The same
fruits come each summer, and the winters are alike. The
bird builds in the same tree many times.

“My children, I have lived long among the pale-faces.
Still, my heart is of the same colour as my face. I have
never forgotten that I am a red-man; never forgotten the
Onondagoes. When I was young, beautiful woods covered
these fields. Far and near the buck and the moose leaped
among the trees. Nothing but the hunter stopped them. It
is all changed! The plough has frightened away the deer.
The moose will not stay near the sound of the church-bell.
He does not know what it means. The deer goes first.
The red-man keeps on his trail, and the pale-face is never
far behind. So it has been since the big canoes of the
stranger first came into our waters; so it will be until
another salt lake is reached beneath the setting sun. When
that other lake is seen, the red-man must stop, and die in
the open fields, where rum, and tobacco, and bread are
plenty, or march on into the great salt lake of the west and
be drowned. Why this is so I cannot tell. That it has been
so, I know; that it will be so, I believe. There is a reason
for it; none can tell what that reason is but the Great
Spirit.”

Susquesus had spoken calmly and clearly, and Manytongues
translated as he proceeded, sentence by sentence.
So profound was the attention of the savage listeners that I
heard their suppressed breathings. We white men are so
occupied with ourselves, and our own passing concerns, look
on all other races of human beings as so much our inferiors,
that it is seldom we have time or inclination to reflect on the
consequences of our own acts. Like the wheel that rolls
along the highway, however, many is the inferior creature
that we heedlessly crush in our path. Thus has it been with
the red-man, and, as the Trackless had said, thus will it
continue to be. He will be driven to the salt lake of the far
west, where he must plunge in and be drowned, or turn and
die in the midst of abundance.

My uncle Ro knew more of the Indians, and of their habits,
than any one else of our party, unless it might be my
grandmother. She, indeed, had seen a good deal of them
in early life; and when quite a young girl, dwelling with
that uncle of her own who went by the sobriquet of the
“Chainbearer,” she had even dwelt in the woods, near the
tribe of Susquesus, and had often heard him named there

as an Indian in high repute, although he was even at that
distant day an exile from his people. When our old friend
resumed his seat, she beckoned her son and myself to the
side of the carriage, and spoke to us on the subject of what
had just been uttered, the translation of Manytongues having
been loud enough to let the whole party hear what he
said.

“This is not a visit of business, but one of ceremony
only,” she said. “To-morrow, probably, the real object of
the strangers will be made known. All that has passed, as
yet, has been complimentary, mixed with a little desire to
hear the wisdom of the sage. The red-man is never in a
hurry, impatience being a failing that he is apt to impute to
us women. Well, though we are females, we can wait. In
the mean time, some of us can weep, as you see is particularly
the case with Miss Mary Warren.”

This was true enough; the fine eyes of all four of the
girls glistening with tears, while the cheeks of the person
named were quite wet with those that had streamed down
them. At this allusion to such an excess of sympathy, the
young lady dried her eyes, and the colour heightened so
much in her face, that I thought it best to avert my looks.
While this by play was going on, Prairiefire arose again,
and concluded the proceedings of that preliminary visit, by
making another short speech:

“Father,” he said, “we thank you. What we have heard
will not be forgotten. All red-men are afraid of that Great
Salt Lake, under the setting sun, and in which some say it
dips every night. What you have told us, will make us
think more of it. We have come a great distance, and are
tired. We will now go to our wigwam, and eat, and sleep.
To-morrow, when the sun is up here,” pointing to a part
of the heavens that would indicate something like nine
o'clock, “we will come again, and open our ears. The
Great Spirit who has spared you so long, will spare you
until then, and we shall not forget to come. It is too pleasant
to us to be near you, for us to forget. Farewell.”

The Indians now rose in a body, and stood regarding
Susquesus fully a minute, in profound silence, when they
filed off at a quick pace, and followed their leader towards
their quarters for the night. As the train noiselessly wound

its way from before him, a shade passed athwart the dark
countenance of the Trackless, and he smiled no more that
day.

All this time the negro, the contemporary of the Indian,
kept muttering his discontent at seeing so many redskins in
his presence, unheeded and indeed unheard by his friend.

“What you do wid dem Injin,” he growled, as the party
disappeared. “No good ebber come of sich as dem. How
many time dey work debbletry in a wood, and you and I
not werry far off, Sus. How ole you got, redskin; and
forgetful! Nobody can hold out wid colour' man. Gosh!
I do b'lieve I lib for ebber, sometime! It won'erful to think
of, how long I stay on dis werry 'arth!”

Such exclamations were not uncommon with the aged
Jaaf, and no one noted them. He did not seem to expect
any answer himself, nor did any one appear to deem it at
all necessary to make one. As for the Trackless, he arose
with a saddened countenance, and moved into his hut like
one who wished to be left alone with his thoughts. My
grandmother ordered the carriage to move on, and the rest
of us returned to the house on foot.