prominence.

The big doors of the red barn stood wide open, and as soon as the horses
were properly tethered the country people streamed inside. Most
primitive benches had been placed in rows facing a broad platform at the
farther end, and men, women and children filed into the seats with all
the solemnity of people entering church. As soon as they had settled
themselves on the benches they all stared at the platform.

Five swarthy, red-skinned Indians stood on the raised place, and a
little in front of them stood a tall, strong-featured white man. The
Indians wore their native buckskin clothes, and had chains of bright
beads about their necks, but their faces were as quiet and peaceful as
that of the white man in front of them. One of them, he who looked the
youngest, wore a single brilliant red feather in his long black hair.
All the men stood there patiently until the barn was filled.

Down in front, close to the platform, sat a small boy, his eyes fixed on
the young Indian who wore the scarlet feather. The boy was about eight
years old. His hair was dark and rather long, his blue eyes looked from
under light yellowish eyebrows, his mouth was very wide but his lips
were thin and straight. He looked alert and interested.

Presently the white man on the platform, who was a widely-known Moravian
missionary named Count Zinzendorf, raised his voice in prayer. The
farmers, their wives, and children knelt on the floor of the barn. When
the prayer was ended the Count stated that at this meeting, or synod, as
he called it, they were to hear from five Delaware Indians, lately
converted to Christianity. One after the other the red men stepped
forward and spoke, slowly, and sometimes hesitating over long English
words, but with a fine earnestness that was accented by their strong,
dignified bearing and their firm, well-cut features.

The boy in front listened attentively, although he could not understand
everything they said. He liked Indians, and, as long as he had to go to
church, he was glad he could look at these Delawares.

The synod came to an end, and the congregation filed slowly out of the
barn. Those who had ridden mounted again, and went their homeward way at
the slow and decorous pace suitable to Sunday. Squire Boone, who had
been sitting on the front bench with his wife Sarah, and nine of his
eleven children, gathered the latter together, and guided them, much
like a flock of sheep, to his log cabin home near O