The last level sun rays stripped with crimson gold the outer edges of the woods; the stream ran purple and fire, and the ceaseless sighing of its waters sounded soft as foliage stirring on high pines.

I said to the Mole in a low voice: 

“Brother in Christ, do you find consolation and peace in your Testament when the whole land lies writhing under the talons and bloody beak of war?”

The Stockbridge warrior looked up quietly: 

“I read the promise of the Prince of Peace, brother, who came to the world not bearing a sword.”

“He came to fulfill, not to destroy,” I said.

“So it is written, brother.”

“And yet you and I, His followers, go forth armed to slay.”

“To prepare a place for Him—­ His humble instruments—­ lest His hands be soiled with the justice of God’s wrath.  What is it that we wade in blood, so that He pass with feet unsoiled?”

“My brother has spoken.”

The burning eyes of the calm fanatic were fastened on me, then they serenely reverted to the printed page on his knees; and he continued reading and nibbling at his parched and salted corn.  If ever a convert broke bread with the Lord, this red disciple now sat supping in His presence, under the immemorial eaves of His leafy temple.

The Grey-Feather, who had been listening, said quietly: 

“We Iroquois alone, among all Indians, have always acknowledged one Spirit.  We call Him the Master of Life; you Christians call Him God.  And does it truly avail anything with Tharon, O my brother Loskiel, if I wear the Turtle, or if my brother the Mole paints out the Beaver on his breast with a Christian cross?”

“So that your religion be good and you live up to it, sign and symbol avail nothing with God or with Tharon,” said I.

“Men wear what they love best,” said the Mole, lightly touching his cross.

“But under cross and clan ensign,” said I, “lies a man’s secret heart.  Does the Master of Life judge any man by the colour of his skin or the paint he wears, or the clothing?  Christ’s friends were often beggars.  Did Tharon ever ask of any man what moccasins he wore?”

The Sagamore said gravely: 

“Uncas went naked to the Holder of the Heavens.”

It was a wonderful speech for a Sagamore and an Algonquin, for he used the Iroquois term to designate the Holder of Heaven.  The perfect courtesy of a Christian gentleman could go no further.  And I thought of our trivial and petty and warring sects, and was silent and ashamed.

The Wyandotte wiped his powerful jaw with a handful of dead leaves, and looked coldly around at the little circle of men who differed with one another so profoundly in their religious beliefs.

“Is this then the hour and the place to discuss such matters, and irritate the Unseen?”

All eyes were instantly turned on the pagan; the Oneidas seemed troubled; the Sagamore serious.  Only the Christian Indian remained placid and indifferent, his Testament suspended in his hand.  But he also was listening.