Silvertip retired to his corner with gloomy face.

The others bowed their heads as if the maiden's decree was irrevocable.
Once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out.

An old Indian, wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the lodge and waved his wampum wand.

He mumbled strange words, and departed chanting a long song.
Whispering Winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face, and, still holding Joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through long rows of silent Indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he following like one in a dream.
He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through the leaves.

Yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand.
Surely this slender, graceful figure was real.
She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions.