Indian.

Presently a voice spoke to me, but I could not understand the words. I
shook my head feebly, and another spoke. This time I knew that the
tongue was Cherokee, a speech I could recognize but could not follow.
Again I shook my head, and a third took up the parable. This one spoke
the Powhatan language, which I knew, and I replied in the same tongue.

There was a tall man wearing in his hair a single great feather, whom I
took to be the chief. He spoke to me through the interpreter, and asked
me whence I came.

I told him I was a hunter who had strayed in the hills. He asked where
the other was.

"He is dead," I said, "dead of your knives. But five of your braves
atoned for him."

"You speak truth," he said gravely. "But the Children of the West Wind
do not suffer the death of, their sons to go unrewarded. For each one
of the five, three Palefaces shall eat the dust in the day of our
triumph."

"Be it so," said I stoutly, though I felt a dreadful nausea coming over
me. I was determined to keep my head high, if only my frail body would
not fail me.

"The Sons of the West Wind," he spoke again, "have need of warriors.
You can atone for the slaughter you have caused, and the blood feud
will be forgotten. In the space of five suns we shall sweep the