to their feet and all form in a circle about him, Robertson, who stands
only five feet nine inches and is not so robust as in later years, seems
like a pygmy among giants. Yet he is as cool, as collected, as
apparently unconscious of danger, as if every one of those painted
savages (when aroused, red devils) was his near friend or
blood-relation. The chiefs glance at him, and then at one another, with
as much wonderment in their eyes as was ever seen in the eyes of a
Cherokee. They know he is but one man and they twelve hundred, and that
by their law of retaliation his life is forfeit; and yet he stands
there, a look of singular power on his face, as if not they but he were
master of the situation. They have seen physical bravery; but this is
moral courage, which, when a man has a great purpose, lifts him above
all personal considerations and makes his life no more to him than the
bauble he wears upon his finger.

Robertson waits for the others to speak, and there is a short pause
before the old chief breaks the silence. Then, extending his hand to
Robertson, he says, "Our white brother is welcome. We have eaten of his
venison and drunk of his fire-water. He is welcome. Let him speak.
Oconostota will listen."

The white man returns cordially the grasp of the Indian; and then, still
standing, while all about him seat themselves on the ground, he makes
known the object of his coming. I regret I cannot give here his exact
answer, for all who read this would wish to know the very words he used
on this momentous occasion. No doubt they were, like all he said, terse,
pithy, and in such scriptural phrase as was with him so habitual. I know
only the substance of what he said, and it was as follows: that the
young brave had been killed by one not belonging to the Watauga
community; that the murderer had fled, but when apprehended would be