“Peter, we can count on you for a friend, I hope?” said the bee-hunter, as the two were about to part, on the bank of the river.  “I fear you were, once, our enemy!”

“Bourdon,” said Peter, with dignity, and speaking in the language of his own people, “listen.  There are Good Spirits, and there are Bad Spirits.  Our traditions tell us this.  Our own minds tell us this, too.  For twenty winters a Bad Spirit has been whispering in my ear.  I listened to him; and did what he told me to do.  I believed what he said.  His words were—­’Kill your enemies—­scalp all the pale-faces—­ do not leave a squaw, or a pappoose.  Make all their hearts heavy.  This is what an Injin should do.’  So has the Bad Spirit been whispering to me, for twenty winters.  I listened to him.  What he said, I did.  It was pleasant to me to take the scalps of the pale-faces.  It was pleasant to think that no more scalps would be left among them, to take.  I was Scalping Peter.

“Bourdon, the Good Spirit has, at last, made himself heard.  His whisper is so low, that at first my ears did not hear him.  They hear him now.  When he spoke loudest, it was with the tongue of the medicine-priest of your people.  He was about to die.  When we are about to die, our voices become strong and clear.  So do our eyes.  We see what is before, and we see what is behind.  We feel joy for what is before—­we feel sorrow for what is behind.  Your medicine-priest spoke well.  It sounded in my ears as if the Great Spirit, himself, was talking.  They say it was his Son.  I believe them.  Blossom has read to me out of the good book of your people, and I find it is so.  I feel like a child, and could sit down, in my wigwam, and weep.

“Bourdon, you are a pale-face, and I am an Injin.  You are strong, and I am weak.  This is because the Son of the Great Spirit has talked with your people, and has not talked with mine.  I now see why the pale-faces overrun the earth and take the hunting-grounds.  They know most, and have been told to come here, and to tell what they know to the poor ignorant Injins.  I hope my people will listen.  What the Son of the Great Spirit says must be true.  He does not know how to do wrong.

“Bourdon, once it seemed sweet to me to take the scalps of my enemies.  When an Injin did me harm, I took his scalp.  This was my way.  I could not help it, then.  The Wicked Spirit told me to do this.  The Son of the Manitou has now told me better.  I have lived under a cloud.  The breath of the dying medicine-priest of your people has blown away that cloud.  I see clearer.  I hear him telling the Manitou to do me good, though I wanted his scalp.  He was answered in my heart.  Then my ears opened wider, and I heard what the Good Spirit whispered.  The ear in which the Bad Spirit had been talking for twenty winters shut, and was deaf.  I hear him no more.  I do not want to hear him again.  The whisper of the Son of the Manitou is very pleasant to me.  It sounds like the wren singing his sweetest song.  I hope he will always whisper so.  My ear shall never again be shut to his words.