ed, bloated appearance which comes to the Indian later in life.
His face was almost as delicately chiseled as his sister's, but it was
strong as well as high caste. The eagle beakishness of his nose matched
the flashing black eyes. His mouth was sensitive and clean-cut. His
forehead was high and broad, and his cheeks were delicately round.

Nevil became a wretched, unkempt type of manhood in comparison. In form,
at least, this chief of twenty-one years was a veritable king.

He smiled on his white councilor when the last of his own people had
departed. He thrust out a slim, strong hand, and the two men shook hands
heartily.

"It is slow with many in council," the chief said, in his own
smooth-flowing tongue. "You, white man, and I can settle matters quickly.
Quicker than these wise men of my father."

There was a flash of impatience in his speaking eyes. Nevil nodded
approval.

"They think much before they speak," he replied, in the language in which
he had been addressed. He, too, smiled; and in their manner toward each
other it was plain the excellent understanding they were on.

"Sit, my white brother, we have many things for talk. Even we, like those
others, must sit if we would pow-wow well. It is good. Sit." Little Black
Fox laughed shortly, conceiving himself superior in thought to the older
generation of wise men. He was possessed of all the vanity of his years.

They both returned to the ground, and the chief kicked together the embers
of the council-fire.

"Tell me, brother, of Wanaha," this still unproved warrior went on, in an
even, indifferent voice; "she who was the light of our father's eyes; she
who has the wisdom of the rattlesnake, and the gentle heart of the summer
moon."

"She is well." Nevil was not expansive. He knew the man had other things
to talk of, and he wanted him to talk.

"Ah. And all the friends of my white brother?"

The face smiled, but the eyes were keenly alight.

"They are well. And Rosebud----"

"Ah."

"She grows fairer every day."

There was a truly Indian pause. The fire sputtered and cast shadows upon
the dark, bare walls. The two men gazed thoughtfully into the little flame
which vauntingly struggled to rear itself in the dense atmosphere. At last
the Indian spoke.

"That man who killed my father is a great brave."

"Yes," nodded Nevil, with a reflective smile in his pale eyes. "And
Rosebud is a ripe woman. Beautiful as the flower which is her name."

"Hah