Then it began again in the Indian tongue, and the whole host rose to their feet.

Muckle John, like some old priest of Diana, flung up his arms to the heavens, and seemed to be invoking his strange gods.

Or he may have been blessing his flock--I know not which.
Then he turned and strode back to his tent, just as he had done on that night in the Cauldstaneslap....
A hand was laid on my arm and Onotawah stood by me.

He motioned me to follow him, and led me past the smoking altar to a row of painted white stones around the great wigwam.

This he did not cross, but pointed to the tent door, I pushed aside the flap and entered.
An Indian lamp--a wick floating in oil--stood on a rough table.