He went into the teepee and lighted his pipe, and then, seating himself outside, began to smoke.

He was, in truth, a sorry figure for a bridegroom.

Always repulsive in his looks, his present dress was not calculated to improve him.

He wore mourning for his enemy, whom he had killed.
His face was painted perfectly black; nothing but the whites of his eyes relieved the universal darkness.

His blanket was torn and old--his hair unbraided, and on the top of his head he wore a knot of swan's down.
Every mark of grief or respect he could have shown a dead brother, he now assumed in honor of the man whom he had hated--whose life he had destroyed--who had belonged to the hateful tribe which had ever been the enemy of his nation.
He looked very important as he puffed away, now watching Harpstenah, who appeared to be unconscious of his presence, now fixing his eyes on her mother, who was busily employed mending mocassins.
Having finished smoking; he used a fan which was attached to the other end of his pipe-stem.