the wonders and sights of Paris, the other describing with his
true native eloquence the beauties of his country, and repeating the old
local Irish legends, which appeared to me quaint and highly poetical.

Of a sudden we were surrounded by a party of sixty Arrapahoes; of
course, resistance or flight was useless. Our captors, however, treated
us with honour, contenting themselves with watching us closely and
preventing our escape. They knew who we were, and though my horse,
saddle, and rifle were in themselves a booty for any chief, nothing was
taken on us. I addressed the chief, whom I knew:

"What have I done to the Morning Star of the Arrapahoes, that I should
be taken and watched like a sheep of the Watchinangoes?"

The chief smiled and put his hand upon my shoulders. "The Arrapahoes,"
said he, "love the young Owato Wanisha and his pale-faced brothers, for
they are great warriors, and can beat their enemies with beautiful blue
fires from the heavens. The Arrapahoes know all; they are a wise people.
They will take Owato Wanisha to their own tribe that he may show his
skill to them, and make them warriors. He shall be fed with the fattest
and sweetest dogs. He will become a great warrior among the Arrapahoes.
So wish our prophets. I obey the will of the prophets and of
the nation."

"But," answered I, "my Manitou will not hear me if I am a slave. The
Pale-face Manitou has ears only for free warriors. He will not lend me
his fires unless space and time be my own."

The chief interrupted me:--"Owato Wanisha is not a slave, nor can he be
one. He is with his good friends, who will watch over him, light his
fire, spread their finest blankets in his tent, and fill it with the
best game of the prairie. His friends love the young chief, but he must
not escape from them, else the evil spirit would make the young
Arrapahoes drunk as a beastly Crow, and excite them in their folly to
kill the Pale-faces."

As nothing could be attempted for the present, we submitted to our fate,
and were conducted by a long and dreary journey to the eastern shores of
the Rio Colorado of the West, until at last we arrived at one of the
numerous and beautiful villages of the Arrapahoes. There we passed the
winter in a kind of honourable captivity. An attempt to escape would
have been the signal of our death, or, at least, of a harsh captivity.
We were surrounded by vast sandy deserts, inhabited, by the Clubs
(Piuses), a cruel race of people,