another, a message filled with compliments to the hearer’s wisdom and courage and nobility. Yet one word that was twice spoken produced each time a ripple of movement from the throng and, or so David felt, a current of excitement. That word was Pometacom.
From where he stood, well within the palisade, David caught but uncertain glimpses of the visitors between the heads of the group about him, for the gateway was narrow and the strangers stood a little to one side. Yet at times a painted visage moved into his sight for a fleeting instant and aroused a sense of familiarity. The countenance seemed strange and yet dimly known. Above it a glistening scalp-lock, reeking with oil, was wound with crimson cloth and adorned with yellow and blue feathers. A rude painting of a duck was done in white on the man’s forehead and each cheek held a crude and uncertain design in the same pigment, while across the bridge of the nose and beneath the eyes ran two stripes. In his ears were bone pendants, carved to strange shapes. He was tall and straight and well-muscled, and bore himself with an air of authority that well fitted him. All this David could not see at
