After a short spell of obliviousness, I recovered my senses. I
perceived that the Indians were still around me, but no longer in the
menacing attitude in which I had seen them before being struck down; on
the contrary, they appeared to be treating me with kindness. One of
them held my head upon his knee, while another was endeavouring to
staunch the blood that was running freely from a wound in my temples.
The others stood around regarding me with interest, and apparently
anxious about my recovery.
Their behaviour caused me surprise, for I had no other thought than that
they had intended to kill me; indeed, as I sank under the stroke of the
tomahawk, my senses had gone out, under the impression that I _was_
killed. Such a reflection is not uncommon to those whom a blow has
suddenly deprived of consciousness.
My surprise was of an agreeable character. I felt that I still lived--
that I was but little hurt; and not likely to receive any further damage
from those who surrounded me.
They were speaking to one another in low tones, pronouncing the
prognosis of my wound, and apparently gratified that they had not killed
me.
"We have spilled your blood, but it is not dangerous," said one,
addressing himself to me in his native tongue. "It was I who gave the
blow. _Hulwak_! it was dark. Friend of the Rising Sun! we did not know
you. We thought you were the _yatika-clucco_ [the `great speaker'--the
commissioner]. It is his blood we intended to spill. We expected to
find him here; he has been here: where gone?"