“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 Wullogana, or the laughter of his children, is it to strike an enemy.  His flesh is good, for it strengthens a red heart.  The wolf will never become a lamb, and the wolf is the totem of my clan.  Ohquamehud has said.”

It would be impossible to describe the conflicting emotions of Holden during this savage speech.  Whatever might have been the wild incidents of his youth, or whatever his wrongs and sufferings, the time was long past, and he had supposed all stormy passion subdued, and his heart chastised to resignation and submission.  He listened at first with unmixed horror to the Indian’s declaration, but as the savage went on, the words became more and more indistinct, till they lost all meaning or were converted into other sounds, and, as in a dream, made the aliment of his thoughts.  The whole conversation, and the very language in which they spoke, contributed to produce this state of mind.  Lost to all around, his soul was far away.  He saw a cabin beside a mountain torrent, overshadowed by immense trees.  It was summer, and the birds were singing among the branches.  The door of the cabin opened, and a young and beautiful white woman stepped out, holding a child by the hand.  Suddenly it was night, and the cabin on fire, and he heard the yells of savages, and saw them like so many demons dancing round the flames; then hush, all again was still, and darkness brooded over the spot, lighted only by a flickering brand.