Is this to continue, Sagamore ?" "My brother sees," he said proudly.

"Cats were made for skinning." There was nothing to do about it; no more to be said.

I now comprehended this, as I stood lacing my rifle-shirt and watching him at his weird self-embellishment.
"The war-paint you have worn each day has seemed to me somewhat unusual," I said curiously.
He glanced sharply up at me, scowled, then said gravely: "When a Sagamore of the Mohicans paints for a war against warriors, the paint is different.

But," he added, and his eyes blazed, and the very scalp-lock seemed to bristle on his shaven head, "when a Lenape Sachem of the Enchanted Clan paints for war with Seneca sorcerers, he wears also the clean symbols of his sacred priesthood, so that he may fight bad magic with good magic, sorcery with sorcery, and defy this scarlet priest--this vile, sly Warlock Amochol!" Truly there was no more for me to say.

I dared not let him believe that his movements were either watched or under the slightest shadow of restraint.