It was the night of a levee at the White House. The East Room was
crowded with smartly dressed men and women of the capital, quaintly
simple legislators from remote States in bygone fashions, officers in
uniform, and the diplomatic circle blazing with orders. The invoker
of this brilliant assembly stood in simple evening dress near the
door,--unattended and hedged by no formality. He shook the hand of
the new Congressman heartily, congratulated him by name, and turned
smilingly to the next comer. Presently there was a slight stir at one
of the opposite doors, the crowd fell back, and five figures stalked
majestically into the centre of the room. They were the leading chiefs
of an Indian reservation coming to pay their respects to their
"Great Father," the President. Their costumes were a mingling of the
picturesque with the grotesque; of tawdriness with magnificence; of
artificial tinsel and glitter with the regal spoils of the chase; of
childlike vanity with barbaric pride. Yet before these the glittering
orders and ribbons of the diplomats became dull and meaningless, the
uniforms of the officers mere servile livery. Their painted, immobile
faces and plumed heads towered with grave dignity above the meaner
crowd; their inscrutable eyes returned no response to the timid
glances directed towards them. They stood by themselves, alone and
impassive,--yet their presence filled the room with the sense of kings.
The unostentatious, simple republican court suddenly seemed to have
become royal. Even the interpreter who stood between their remote
dignity and the nearer civilized world acquired the status of a court
chamberlain.

When their "Great Father," apparently the less important personage, had
smilingly received them, a political colleague approached Peter and took
his arm. "Gray Eagle would like to speak with you. Come on! Here's your