“To prepare a place for Him — His humble instruments — lest His hands be soiled with the justice of God’s wrath. What is it that we wade in blood, so that He pass with feet unsoiled?”

“My brother has spoken.”

The burning eyes of the calm fanatic were fastened on me, then they serenely reverted to the printed page on his knees; and he continued reading and nibbling at his parched and salted corn. If ever a convert broke bread with the Lord, this red disciple now sat supping in His presence, under the immemorial eaves of His leafy temple.

The Grey-Feather, who had been listening, said quietly:

“We Iroquois alone, among all Indians, have always acknowledged one Spirit.