While Heckewelder spoke, Jim, who stood just behind, employed the
few moments in running his eye over the multitude. The sight which
met his gaze was one he thought he would never forget. An
involuntary word escaped him.
"Magnificent!" he exclaimed.
The shady glade had been transformed into a theater, from which
gazed a thousand dark, still faces. A thousand eagle plumes waved,
and ten thousand bright-hued feathers quivered in the soft breeze.
The fantastically dressed scalps presented a contrast to the smooth,
unadorned heads of the converted redmen. These proud plumes and
defiant feathers told the difference between savage and Christian.
In front of the knoll sat fifty chiefs, attentive and dignified.
Representatives of every tribe as far west as the Scioto River were
numbered in that circle. There were chiefs renowned for war, for
cunning, for valor, for wisdom. Their stately presence gave the
meeting tenfold importance. Could these chiefs be interested, moved,
the whole western world of Indians might be civilized.
Hepote, a Maumee chief, of whom it was said he had never listened to
words of the paleface, had the central position in this circle. On
his right and left, respectively, sat Shaushoto and Pipe, implacable
foes of all white men. The latter's aspect did not belie his
reputation.
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