Faithful to his master’s orders, or perhaps to his own sense of what was fitting and proper in such a case, little Peter leaped hastily among the skins and other litter that covered half the floor and the sleeping-berths of the lodge, and was immediately out of sight, having left the apartment, or concealed himself in its darkest corner.  The steps approached; they reached the door:  Nathan threw himself back, reclining against his pile of furs, and fixed his eye upon the mats at the entrance.  They were presently parted; and the old chief Wenonga came halting into the apartment,—­halting, yet with a step that was designed to indicate all the pride and dignity of a warrior.  And this attempt at state was the more natural and proper, as he was armed and painted as if for war, his grim-countenance hideously bedaubed on one side with vermillion, and the other with black; a long scalping-knife, without sheath or cover, swinging from his wampum belt; while a hatchet, the blade and handle both of steel, was grasped in his hand.  In this guise, and with a wild and demoniacal glitter of eye, that seemed the result of mingled drunkenness and insanity, the old chief stalked and limped up to the prisoner, looking as if bent upon his instant destruction.  That his passions were up in arms, that he was ripe for mischief and blood, was, indeed, plain and undeniable; but he soon made it apparent that his rage was only conditional and alternative, as regarded the prisoner.  Pausing within three or four feet of him, and giving him a look that seemed designed to freeze his blood, it was so desperately hostile and savage, he extended his arm and hatchet,—­not, however, to strike, as it appeared, but to do what might be judged almost equally agreeable to nine-tenths of his race,—­that is, to deliver a speech.

“I am Wenonga!” he cried, in his own tongue, being perhaps too much enraged to think of any other, “I am Wenonga, a great Shawnee chief.  I have fought the Longknives, and drunk their blood:  when they hear my voice they are afraid; they run howling away, like dogs when the squaws beat them from the fire—­who ever stood before Wenonga?  I have fought my enemies, and killed them.  I never feared a white man:  why should I fear a white man’s devil?  Where is the Jibbenainosay, the curse of my tribe?—­the Shawneewannaween, the howl of my people?  He kills them in the dark, he creeps upon them while they sleep; but he fears to stand before the face of a warrior!  Am I a dog? or a woman?  The squaws and the children curse me, as I go by:  they say I am the killer of their husbands and fathers; they tell me it was the deed of Wenonga, that brought the white man’s devil to kill them; ’if Wenonga is a chief, let him kill the killer of his people!’ I am Wenonga; I am a man; I fear nothing:  I have sought the Jibbenainosay.  But the Jibbenainosay is a coward; he walks in the dark, he kills in the time of sleep, he fears to fight a warrior!  My brother is a great medicine-man; he is a white man, and he knows how to find the white man’s devils.  Let my brother speak for me; let him show me where to find the Jibbenainosay; and he shall be a great chief, and the son of a chief:  Wenonga will make him his son, and he shall be a Shawnee!”