Jim settled down to his study of Indians with single-heartedness of purpose.  He spent part of every morning with the interpreters, with whose assistance he rapidly acquired the Delaware language.  He went freely among the Indians, endeavoring to win their good-will.  There were always fifty to an hundred visiting Indians at the village; sometimes, when the missionaries had advertised a special meeting, there were assembled in the shady maple grove as many as five hundred savages.  Jim had, therefore, opportunities to practice his offices of friendliness.

Fortunately for him, he at once succeeded in establishing himself in the good graces of Glickhican, the converted Delaware chief.  The wise old Indian was of inestimable value to Jim.  Early in their acquaintance he evinced an earnest regard for the young minister, and talked with him for hours.

From Glickhican Jim learned the real nature of the redmen.  The Indian’s love of freedom and honor, his hatred of subjection and deceit, as explained by the good old man, recalled to Jim Colonel Zane’s estimate of the savage character.  Surely, as the colonel had said, the Indians had reason for their hatred of the pioneers.  Truly, they were a blighted race.

Seldom had the rights of the redmen been thought of.  The settler pushed onward, plodding, as it were, behind his plow with a rifle.  He regarded the Indian as little better than a beast; he was easier to kill than to tame.  How little the settler knew the proud independence, the wisdom, the stainless chastity of honor, which belonged so truly to many Indian chiefs!

The redmen were driven like hounded deer into the untrodden wilds.  From freemen of the forests, from owners of the great boundless plains, they passed to stern, enduring fugitives on their own lands.  Small wonder that they became cruel where once they had been gentle!  Stratagem and cunning, the night assault, the daylight ambush took the place of their one-time open warfare.  Their chivalrous courage, that sublime inheritance from ancestors who had never known the paleface foe, degenerated into a savage ferocity.

Interesting as was this history to Jim, he cared more for Glickhican’s rich portrayal of the redmen’s domestic life, for the beautiful poetry of his tradition and legends.  He heard with delight the exquisite fanciful Indian lore.  From these romantic legends, beautiful poems, and marvelous myths he hoped to get ideas of the Indian’s religion.  Sweet and simple as childless dreams were these quaint tales—­tales of how the woodland fairies dwelt in fern-carpeted dells; how at sunrise they came out to kiss open the flowers; how the forest walks were spirit-haunted paths; how the leaves whispered poetry to the winds; how the rocks harbored Indian gods and masters who watched over their chosen ones.

Glickhican wound up his long discourses by declaring he had never lied in the whole course of his seventy years, had never stolen, never betrayed, never murdered, never killed, save in self-defence.  Gazing at the chief’s fine features, now calm, yet showing traces of past storms, Jim believed he spoke the truth.