As he turned his head, Fluellina came
bounding to his arms. However stoical and indifferent the North
American Indian may appear in the presence of his companions or of
white men, it is a mistake to suppose that he is wanting either in the
ordinary affections of humanity, or in those little demonstrations of
love so peculiar to our own race. Deep in the woods, when alone with
their families, they throw off restraint and are warriors no more--but
_men_. The little child is dandled on the knee, or sported with upon
the grass, and the proud mother receives her share of her husband's
caresses. Great as may be the glory of the savage in the hunt and
chase, his happiness in the bosom of his own family is unsurpassed by
any other enjoyment which ever falls to his lot.
Fluellina received the embrace of her husband with a radiant
countenance, and she seemed overflowing with joy as she looked up in
his own glowing face. Taking her fondly by the hand, he led her a few
yards away, where he seated her upon a half-imbedded rock and placed
himself beside her. A glance at the two would have shown that there
was no considerable difference in their ages. The wife could not have
been over thirty at the most, and she looked much younger, while the
husband was perhaps thirty-five. His square, massive chest was covered
with scars--eloquent evidences of his bravery, for he had never
received a wound in the back. His face, usually so stern and
dignified, was now softened, and the bright, metallic glitter of eye
was changed to the sparkle of gladness.
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