he child by the hand, and would not let him
go."

The face of the Solitary worked with emotion while the other was
speaking.

"Would that I could explain," he said. "But thou art unable to
understand. How canst thou know a Christian heart?"

"The heart of Ohquamehud is a man's."

"Aye; but a savage knows not, and despises forgiveness. I was a
stately pine, whose branches mingled with the clouds, and the birds
came and lodged therein. And a storm arose, and thunders rolled,
and the lightning struck it, and its pride and glory tumbled to the
ground. And it was burnt up, all save this blasted trunk." He uttered
this with a wild frenzy, and as if hardly conscious of the presence of
another.

"Doth the lightning fall from a clear sky?" said the Indian, after
a pause. "It is long since a black cloud burst over the ancient
hunting-grounds of the Pequots."

"Where the streams run toward the setting sun, the thunderbolt struck.
Why was it not me instead of those dearer to me than life?"

"A bird hath sung to Ohquamehud that the land is pleasant, and the
hunter only extends his hand to find something to savor his broth and
to cover his feet."

"It is a land of streams, and mountains, and forests, and the deer
and the bear still are plenty. When the Creator made it, he smiled
and pronounced it good; and there, as in your fabled hunting-grounds,
might men be blessed but for their passions."

"The red man loves his friend, and hates his enemy."

"To hate is a devilish feeling. It comes not from the Good Spirit."

Ohquamehud rose and stood before Holden. It seemed to his bold and
ferocious temper, that he could not, without cowardice, hear assailed
and not vindicate, a principle that had been inculcated upon him from
youth, and formed a sacred portion of his creed. As he stood up, the
blanket fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, around his person,
and he stretched out a hand to solicit attention.

"Listen," he said; "the tongue of Ohquamehud is one: it will speak the
truth. Because the Great Spirit loved his children, he made them to
love and to hate, and both are pleasant. The south wind is sweet when
it comes in spring to tell that winter is past and the starved Indian
need no longer shiver over the fire; and sweet are the kisses of
Wullogana to Ohquamehud, and dear are the voices of his little ones
when they meet him from the chase, but sweeter than the sighs of the
wind of spring, or the caresses of Wullogan