“Mr. Nelson,” said the boy, half-shyly.  “I don’t agree with you.  I heard, not long ago, that old Chief Single-Pine said he only kept to the idol because his people did—­that he dared not cross them, but that after these ten years of your talking with him, he himself believed in the white man’s Christ.”

“Oh, Wampum, if I could only believe that!  If I could, I would die happy.  Who told you this glorious thing?” cried the encouraged missionary.

“A Delaware boy,” replied Wampum, “but when he told me he spat, like a snake does venom.  He said he and all the tribe hated Single-Pine, for listening to you.”

For a moment the missionary was silent, then he arose, the dawn of a majestic hope in his face.  “They may hate him,” he said, “but they will follow him.  He is most powerful.  They dare not rebel where he leads.  If we have won Single-Pine to Christianity, we have won the whole tribe, Wampum.  You have never failed me yet; will you stand by me now?  Will you help me in this great work?”

“I will help you, sir,” replied the boy, his young face glowing with zeal.

“But,” hesitated the missionary, “remember, it is dangerous.  They are a fierce, savage tribe, these Delawares.  Suppose—­” and the good man’s voice ceased.  He thought of his wife and his two baby girls.  Then he shuddered.

Wampum seemed to catch that thought, and instantly a strange inspiration lighted up his wonderful dark face.  He set his strong white teeth together, but kept his determination to himself.

As they prepared to leave the Mission house, Wampum hung back a little, and when Mr. Nelson was not looking, he slipped into the woodshed, got the axe, and adroitly hid it under the wagon-seat.  He told himself that in case of trouble he would at least have some weapon with which to defend the missionary’s life, and fight for his own.  Had the man of peace known this, he would have remonstrated, but Wampum, although a Christian, had good fighting Indian blood in his veins, and had no such horror of battle.  He was like one of the old Crusaders, ready to fight for his faith, even if the fighting had to be done with an axe.

Long before they reached the Delaware Line, they could hear the sounds of feasting and dancing.  It was growing dark, and the great heathen ceremonies were at their height.  Many a time had the good old missionary attended these dances, always putting in a word for Christianity whenever he saw a fitting opening, always hoping that the day would come when the hideous idol would be laid low, and these darkened souls brought to the Light of the World.  But to-night he felt strangely fearful, almost cowardly, for the whole tribe had gathered to pay tribute to their god, and it is a dangerous thing to belittle the god or the faith of any nation that is in earnest in its belief.