He wept. Who
had loved him save Father Chaumonot? None. Like an eagle at sea, he
was alone. God had given him a handsome face, but He had also given
him an alternate--starvation or the robes. He was a beggar; the gown
was his subsistence. By and by his sobs subsided, and he heard a voice.
"So the little Father grows weak?" And the Black Kettle leaned against
a tree and looked curiously down upon the prostrate figure in black.
"Is he thinking of the house of his fathers; or, has he looked too long
upon Onontio's daughter? I have seen; the eagle's eye is not keener
than the Black Kettle's, nor his flight swifter than the Black Kettle's
thought. Her cheeks are like the red ear; her eyes are like the small
blue flower that grows hidden in the forest at springtime; her hair is
like the corn that dries in the winter; but she is neither for the
Black Kettle nor for his brother who weeps. Why do you wear the black
robe, then? I have seen my brother weep! I have seen him face the
torture with a smile--and a woman makes him weep!"
Brother Jacques was up instantly. He grasped the brawny arms of the
Onondaga and drew him toward him.
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