“Magnificent!” he exclaimed.

The shady glade had been transformed into a theater, from which gazed a thousand dark, still faces.  A thousand eagle plumes waved, and ten thousand bright-hued feathers quivered in the soft breeze.  The fantastically dressed scalps presented a contrast to the smooth, unadorned heads of the converted redmen.  These proud plumes and defiant feathers told the difference between savage and Christian.

In front of the knoll sat fifty chiefs, attentive and dignified.  Representatives of every tribe as far west as the Scioto River were numbered in that circle.  There were chiefs renowned for war, for cunning, for valor, for wisdom.  Their stately presence gave the meeting tenfold importance.  Could these chiefs be interested, moved, the whole western world of Indians might be civilized.

Hepote, a Maumee chief, of whom it was said he had never listened to words of the paleface, had the central position in this circle.  On his right and left, respectively, sat Shaushoto and Pipe, implacable foes of all white men.  The latter’s aspect did not belie his reputation.  His copper-colored, repulsive visage compelled fear; it breathed vindictiveness and malignity.  A singular action of his was that he always, in what must have been his arrogant vanity, turned his profile to those who watched him, and it was a remarkable one; it sloped in an oblique line from the top of his forehead to his protruding chin, resembling somewhat the carved bowl of his pipe, which was of flint and a famed inheritance from his ancestors.  From it he took his name.  One solitary eagle plume, its tip stained vermilion, stuck from his scalp-lock.  It slated backward on a line with his profile.

Among all these chiefs, striking as they were, the figure of Wingenund, the Delaware, stood out alone.

His position was at the extreme left of the circle, where he leaned against a maple.  A long, black mantle, trimmed with spotless white, enveloped him.  One bronzed arm, circled by a heavy bracelet of gold, held the mantle close about his lofty form.  His headdress, which trailed to the ground, was exceedingly beautiful.  The eagle plumes were of uniform length and pure white, except the black-pointed tips.

At his feet sat his daughter, Whispering Winds.  Her maidens were gathered round her.  She raised her soft, black eyes, shining with a wondrous light of surprise and expectation, to the young missionary’s face.

Beyond the circle the Indians were massed together, even beyond the limits of the glade.  Under the trees on every side sat warriors astride their steeds; some lounged on the green turf; many reclined in the branches of low-spreading maples.

As Jim looked out over the sea of faces he started in surprise.  The sudden glance of fiery eyes had impelled his gaze.  He recognized Silvertip, the Shawnee chief.  The Indian sat motionless on a powerful black horse.  Jim started again, for the horse was Joe’s thoroughbred, Lance.  But Jim had no further time to think of Joe’s enemy, for Heckewelder stepped back.