wampum to the four corners of the world.”

“The Mohicans, while they wait, may read of glory and great deeds,” I said, “but the belts in their hands are not white. How can this be, my brother?”

The Sagamore’s eyes flashed:

“The belts we remember are red!” he said. “We Mohicans have never understood Iroquois wampum. Let the Lenape of the Kansonsionni bear Iroquois belts!”

“In the Long House,” said I, “the light is dim. Perhaps the Canienga’s ambassadors can no longer perceive the red belts in the archives of the Lenape.”

It had so far been a careful and cautious exchange of subtlest metaphor between