He believed he never could love the Shawnees--they who had first caused his father to be broken of his chiefdom, and then had murdered his mother.

He had sworn eternal hatred against them, and in the interior of his lodge hung such an incredible number of their scalps that we decline to name it--knowing that we should be suspected of trifling with the credulity of our readers.

He had never taken the scalp of a white man, and would promise never to harm any being except the Shawnees; but, toward them his feelings must be those of the deadliest enmity.
The sublime truths of the great Book of books, its glorious promises, and its awful mysteries, thrilled the soul of the Huron to its center, and many a time when wandering alone through the great, solemn forests, he felt his spirit expanding within him, until his eyes overflowed, and he, the mighty, scarred warrior, wept like a child.

The sweet instruction, too, of the gentle Fluellina had not been lost entirely upon him.

It was owing to these that for a year he had not taken the scalp of a Shawnee, though he had been sorely tempted and had slain more than one.