him the flower of the
magnolia. She is the lily that grew by the side of the stream, and under
the sycamore. I have done well, I have done much, yet not enough for a
great chief, not enough for a brother, not enough for justice! Sages,
warriors, hear me all. The Flower of the Magnolia can lie but upon the
bosom of a chief. My brother must become a chief. He is a chief, for I
divide with him the power I possess: my wealth, my lodge, are his own;
my horses, my mules, my furs, and all! A chief has but one life, and it
is a great gift that cannot be paid too highly. You have heard my words.
I have said!"

This sounds very much like a romance, but it is an Apache story, related
of one of their great chiefs, during one of their evening encampments.
An Apache having, in a moment of passion, accidentally killed one of the
tribe, hastened to the chiefs to deliver himself up to justice. On his
way he was met by the brother of his victim, upon whom, according to
Indian laws, fell the duty of revenge and retaliation. They were
friends, and shook hands together.

"Yet I must kill thee, friend," said the brother.

"Thou wilt!" answered the murderer, "it is thy duty; but wilt thou not
remember the dangers we have passed together, and provide and console
those I leave behind in my lodge?"

"I will," answered the brother. "Thy wife shall be my sister during her
widowhood; thy children will never want game, until they can themselves
strike the bounding deer."

The two Indians continued their way in silence, till at once the brother
of the murdered one stopped.

"We shall soon reach the chiefs," said he; "I to revenge a brother's
death, thou to quit for ever thy tribe and thy children, Hast thou a
wish? Think, whisper!"

The murderer stood irresolute; his glance furtively took the direction
of his lodge. The brother continued,--

"Go to thy lodge. I shall wait for thee till the setting of the sun,
before the council door. Go! thy tongue is silent, but I know the wish
of thy heart. Go!"

Such traits are common in Indian life. Distrust exists not among the
children of the wilderness, until generated by the conduct of white men.
These stories, and thousand others, all exemplifying the triumph of
virtue and honour over baseness and vice, are every day narrated by the
elders, in presence of the young men and children. The evening
encampment is a great school of morals, where the red-skin philosopher
embodies in his tales the sacre