The Iroquois romancer was better
protected than the white one is. He could finish some of his
stories in one evening, but others were serials. When he arrived
at the end of the night's installment he would cry, "Si-ga!"
which was equivalent to our "To be continued in our next." Then
all would rise, and if tired would seek sleep, but if not they
would catch the closing part of some other story-teller's
romance.
At three fires Senecas were playing a peculiar little wooden
flute of their own invention, that emitted wailing sounds not
without a certain sweetness. In a corner a half dozen warriors
hurt in battle were bathing their wounds with a soothing lotion
made from the sap of the bass wood.
Henry lingered a while in the darkest corners, witnessing the
feasting, hearing the flutes and the chants, listening for a
space to the story-tellers and the enthusiastic "Hahs!" They
were so full of feasting and merrymaking now that one could
almost do as he pleased, and he stole toward the southern end of
the village, where he had noticed several huts, much more
strongly built than the others. Despite all his natural skill
and experience his heart beat very fast when he came to the
first.
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