He heard with delight the exquisite fanciful Indian lore.

From these romantic legends, beautiful poems, and marvelous myths he hoped to get ideas of the Indian's religion.

Sweet and simple as childless dreams were these quaint tales--tales of how the woodland fairies dwelt in fern-carpeted dells; how at sunrise they came out to kiss open the flowers; how the forest walks were spirit-haunted paths; how the leaves whispered poetry to the winds; how the rocks harbored Indian gods and masters who watched over their chosen ones.
Glickhican wound up his long discourses by declaring he had never lied in the whole course of his seventy years, had never stolen, never betrayed, never murdered, never killed, save in self-defence.
Gazing at the chief's fine features, now calm, yet showing traces of past storms, Jim believed he spoke the truth.
When the young minister came, however, to study the hostile Indians that flocked to the village, any conclusive delineation of character, or any satisfactory analysis of their mental state in regard to the paleface religion, eluded him.

Their passive, silent, sphinx-like secretiveness was baffling.

Glickhican had taught him how to propitiate the friendly braves, and with these he was successful.