[Illustration: "Niniotan, my son, is late."]
"I was chasing a deer this morning, and was carried further in the
woods than I thought," meekly replied the boy.
"Has the Moravian missionary given Niniotan two tongues that he should
think Oonomoo speaks idle words?"
"Niniotan does not think so," said the son, in a humble voice of
thrilling sweetness.
"Oonomoo said when the sun was over yonder tree-top he would be waiting
for his boy Niniotan. He waited, but Niniotan was not here."
The son of the Huron warrior bowed his head as if he had nothing to say
to the merited rebuke. The father took his seat in the canoe of his
son, who carried him rapidly forward through the swamp, for perhaps a
quarter of a mile further, when the ground became so solid that they
landed and walked upon it. The grass was green and luxuriant, the
trees stood close together, and in some places the shrubbery seemed
almost impenetrable. But Niniotan never hesitated. The way was
perfectly familiar. A rabbit could scarcely have glided through the
wood with more dexterity than did he and his father.
Finally the two reached what appeared to be a large mound of earth,
covered over with rank grass and brilliant flowers. On one side was a
perfect bank of bushes, so that the mound could not be seen until it
was closely approached. A Shawnee Indian might have encamped beside
it, without once having his suspicion awakened in regard to its nature.
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