"My brother sleeps sounder than a winter bear.

Three Erie scalps hang stretched, hooped, and curing in the morning sun, behind the bush-hut.

Little brother, has the Sagamore done well ?" Straightway I whirled on my heel and walked out and around the hut.
Strung like drying fish on a willow wand three scalps hung in the sunshine, the soft July breeze stirring the dead hair.

And as soon as I saw them I knew they were indeed Erie scalps.
Repressing my resentment and disgust, I lingered a moment to examine them, then returned to the hut, where the Siwanois, grave as a catamount at his toilet, squatted in a patch of sunshine, polishing his features.
"So you've done this business every night as soon as I slept," said I.
"You've crept beyond our outer pickets, risking your life, imperilling the success of this army, merely to satisfy your vanity.

This is not well, Mayaro." He said proudly: "Mayaro is safe.