The Indian was so absorbed in the contemplation of the portrait, that he paid no attention to the jesting observation made by Arundel as he left the room, but continued motionless, gazing fixedly upon it.  It represented a man of middle age, of a stern and somewhat forbidding countenance, standing with the open palm of the right hand thrown forward, as if he were addressing the spectator.  It was exceedingly well done,—­so graceful was the attitude, so boldly stood out the figure, so admirable was the coloring, so illusive the air of life.  It was the first portrait that Waqua had seen, and he very naturally mistook it for a living person.

Seeing, as he supposed, a man with eyes fastened on him, standing in an attitude soliciting attention, and as if only waiting until the conversation between those who entered should cease, to address him, Waqua, with instinctive politeness, had stopped, and looking full at the painting, awaited the speech.  He was somewhat surprised and scandalized, under the circumstances, at the garrulity of his companions, and, to confess the truth, Arundel sunk considerably in his estimation.  However, he made all allowances for the rude manners of the whites and differences of customs, though hardly restrained by such considerations from uttering a rebuke for the others’ want of respect to age, and to the master of the house, for whom he took the picture.  As, after Arundel and the girl left the apartment, the figure remained standing, with eyes fastened on Waqua, and his hand continually extended, the Indian, considering it an invitation to be seated, sat down in a chair.  He expected now to be addressed, and modestly dropping his eyes waited for what should be said.  Thus sat Waqua, until, surprised at the continued silence of the other, he raised his eyes, and beheld him still in the same position, with lips partly open, yet emitting no sound.  The situation of the Indian now became more and more embarrassing, and he hesitated what course to pursue.  Greatly perplexed, he turned the matter over and over, until finally he reached the conclusion that this was a mode of welcome among the white men, and that the politeness of the other kept him silent, in order that the visitor should first take up the word, in which opinion he was confirmed by the sedate and unmoved expression of the face.  With such a notion occupying his mind, he rose from his seat, and throwing the beaver robe a little off the right shoulder to allow opportunity for gesticulation, he stood before the picture, and after a moment of grave thought addressed it.

“Waqua,” he said, “is a young man, and ashamed to speak first in the presence of his elder; but the customs of the white men are very different from those of their red brethren, and perhaps among his white brothers the young men speak first that their folly may appear.  Because he thinks his white brother desires him to speak, he will make a very little speech.”

“The silent chief (so he called the picture, not knowing what other name to use) knows that Waqua is a friend, because he sees him in company with the white man who went away with the chief’s daughter with the strawberry lips.  Waqua only asks the hospitality of the silent chief, and permission to remain in his lodge till his friend returns.”