LEGENDS OF VANCOUVER

pat the black pony on its shining neck and speak admiringly of it. It was a warm autumn day: the roads were dry and dusty, and, after a mile or so, the boy-prince brought from beneath the carriage seat a basket of grapes. With his handkerchief he flicked the

dust from them, handed a bunch to the chief and took one himself. An odd spectacle to be traversing a country road: an English prince and an Indian chief, riding amicably side-by-side, enjoying a banquet of grapes like two schoolboys.

On reaching the church, Arthur leapt lightly to the green sward. For a moment he stood, rigid, gazing before him at his future brother-chiefs. His escort had given him a faint idea of what he was to see, but he cer- tainly never expected to be completely sur- rounded by three hundred full-blooded Iro- quois braves and warriors, such as now encircled him on every ide. Every Indian was in war paint and feathers, some stripped to the waist, their copper-colored skins bril- liant with paints, dyes and “patterns”; all carried tomahawks, scalping-knives, and bows and arrows. Every red throat gave a tremen- dous war-whoop as he alighted, which was repeated again and again, as for that half moment he stood silent, a slim boyish figure, clad in light grey tweeds—a singular contrast

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