was softened into a tranquil beauty, then our encampment presented a striking spectacle.  Could Salvator Rosa have transferred it to his canvas, it would have added new renown to his pencil.  Savage figures surrounded our tent, with quivers at their backs, and guns, lances, or tomahawks in their hands.  Some sat on horseback, motionless as equestrian statues, their arms crossed on their breasts, their eyes fixed in a steady unwavering gaze upon us.  Some stood erect, wrapped from head to foot in their long white robes of buffalo hide.  Some sat together on the grass, holding their shaggy horses by a rope, with their broad dark busts exposed to view as they suffered their robes to fall from their shoulders.  Others again stood carelessly among the throng, with nothing to conceal the matchless symmetry of their forms; and I do not exaggerate when I say that only on the prairie and in the Vatican have I seen such faultless models of the human figure.  See that warrior standing by the tree, towering six feet and a half in stature.  Your eyes may trace the whole of his graceful and majestic height, and discover no defect or blemish.  With his free and noble attitude, with the bow in his hand, and the quiver at his back, he might seem, but for his face, the Pythian Apollo himself.  Such a figure rose before the imagination of West, when on first seeing the Belvidere in the Vatican, he exclaimed, “By God, a Mohawk!”

When the sky darkened and the stars began to appear; when the prairie was involved in gloom and the horses were driven in and secured around the camp, the crowd began to melt away.  Fires gleamed around, duskily revealing the rough trappers and the graceful Indians.  One of the families near us would always be gathered about a bright blaze, that displayed the shadowy dimensions of their lodge, and sent its lights far up among the masses of foliage above, gilding the dead and ragged branches.  Withered witchlike hags flitted around the blaze, and here for hour after hour sat a circle of children and young girls, laughing and talking, their round merry faces glowing in the ruddy light.  We could hear the monotonous notes of the drum from the Indian village, with the chant of the war song, deadened in the distance, and the long chorus of quavering yells, where the war dance was going on in the largest lodge.  For several nights, too, we could hear wild and mournful cries, rising and dying away like the melancholy voice of a wolf.  They came from the sisters and female relatives of Mahto-Tatonka, who were gashing their limbs with knives, and bewailing the death of Henry Chatillon’s squaw.  The hour would grow late before all retired to rest in the camp.  Then the embers of the fires would be glowing dimly, the men would be stretched in their blankets on the ground, and nothing could be heard but the restless motions of the crowded horses.