"Two hundred years! two hundred years!
How much of human power and pride,
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears,
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!"--PIERPONT.
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 declared 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," answered 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 visit. 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 suggestion. Yes, sir, I suggested 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 he 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 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 intrusting 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 color 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, moccason, 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 tingeing his cheeks with a color 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. Toward 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, toward
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 visitors. 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 village _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 visitors 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 redskins, 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 afterward 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
color ought ever to be seen there. The Great Spirit has thought
otherwise, and what he thinks happens. Men are of many colors. Some are
red, which is the color of my father. Some are pale, which is the color
of my friends. Some are black, which is the color 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 may 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 toward 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 color
and race to speak to. My head was almost grown white. Still, as years
came on my head, the spirit turned more toward 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 color. 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 toward the setting sun,
and why the pale-faces follow? You ask if the place where the sun sets
will ever be 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 color 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 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 meantime, 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 color 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 toward 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 color' 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.