The Indians' night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he goes he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that heads to approaching footsteps of the hunter. A few more moans.
Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea.
It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see. We will ponder your propositions and when we decide we will let you know.