Bareheaded, he seated himself among the converted redmen.

They began chanting in low, murmuring tones.
Amid the breathless silence that followed this act of such great significance, Wingenund advanced toward the knoll with slow, stately step.

His dark eye swept the glade with lightning scorn; his glance alone revealed the passion that swayed him.
"Wingenund's ears are keen; they have heard a feather fall in the storm; now they hear a soft-voiced thrush.

Wingenund thunders to his people, to his friends, to the chiefs of other tribes: 'Do not bury the hatchet!' The young White Father's tongue runs smooth like the gliding brook; it sings as the thrush calls its mate.

Listen; but wait, wait! Let time prove his beautiful tale; let the moons go by over the Village of Peace.
"Wingenund does not flaunt his wisdom.