A white dove sat in every wigwam.

The lands were theirs and they were rich.

The paleface came with his leaden death, his burning firewater, his ringing ax, and the glory of the redmen faded forever.
"Wingenund seeks not to inflame his braves to anger.

He is sick of blood-spilling--not from fear; for Wingenund cannot feel fear.

But he asks his people to wait.