Chapter XXII.

by James Fenimore Cooper

　　No shrift the gloomy savage brooks, As scowling on the priest he looks; Cowesass--cowesass--tawkich wessasseen! Let my father look on Bornazeen- My father's heart is the heart of a squaw, But mine is so hard that it does not thaw, --WHITTIER.Leaving the newly-married couple to pursue their way homeward, it isnow our province to return to Prairie Round. One accustomed to suchscenes would easily have detected the signs of divided opinions andof agitating doubts among the chiefs, though nothing like contentionor dispute had yet manifested itself. Peter's control was still inthe ascendant, and he had neglected none of his usual means ofsecuring influence. Perhaps he labored so much the harder, from thecircumstance that he now found himself so situated, as to becompelled to undo much that he had previously done.

　　On the other hand, Ungque appeared to have no particular cause ofconcern. His manner was as much unoccupied as usual; and to hishabit of referring all his influence to sudden and powerful burstsof eloquence, if design of any sort was entertained, he left hissuccess.

　　We pass over the details of assembling the council. The spot was notexactly on the prairie, but in a bit of lovely "Opening" on itsmargin, where the eye could roam over a wide extent of that peculiarnatural meadow, while the body enjoyed the shades of the wood. Thechiefs alone were in the circle, while the "braves" and the "youngmen" generally formed a group on the outside; near enough to hearwhat passed, and to profit by it, if so disposed. The pipe wassmoked, and all the ordinary customs observed, when Bear's Meatarose, the first speaker on that momentous occasion.

　　"Brothers," he said, "this is the great council on Prairie Round towhich we have been called. We have met before, but not here. This isour first meeting here. We have travelled a long path to get here.Some of our brethren have travelled farther. They are at Detroit.They went there to meet our great Canada father, and to take Yankeescalps. How many scalps they have taken I do not know, or I wouldtell you. It is pleasant to me to count Yankee scalps. I wouldrather count them, than count the scalps of red men. There are stilla great many left. The Yankees are many, and each Yankee has ascalp. There should not be so many. When the buffaloes came in thelargest droves, our fathers used to go out to hunt them in thestrongest parties. Their sons should do the same. We are the sons ofthose fathers. They say we look like them, talk like them, live likethem--we should act like them. Let another speak, for I have done."

　　After this brief address, which bore some resemblance to achairman's calling a meeting of civilized men to order, there wasmore smoking. It was fully expected that Peter would next arise, buthe did not. Perceiving this, and willing to allow time to that greatchief to arrange his thoughts, Crowsfeather assumed the office offilling the gap. He was far more of a warrior than of an orator, andwas listened to respectfully, but less for what he said, than forwhat he had done. A good deal of Indian boasting, quite naturally,was blended with his discourse.

　　"My brother has told you of the Yankee scalps," he commenced. "Hesays they are many. He says there ought to be fewer. He did notremember who sat so near him. Perhaps he does not know that thereare three less now than there were a moon since. Crowsfeather tookthree at Chicago. Many scalps were taken there. The Yankees must beplentier than the buffaloes on the great prairies, if they can loseso many scalps often, and send forth their warriors. I am aPottawattamie. My brothers know that tribe. It is not a tribe ofJews, but a tribe of Injins. It is a great tribe. It never was lost.It cannot be lost. No tribe better knows all the paths, and all thebest routes to every point where it wishes to go. It is foolish tosay you can lose a Pottawattamie. A duck would be as likely to loseitself as a Pottawattamie. I do not speak for the Ottawas: I speakfor the Pottawattamies. We are not Jews. We do not wish to be Jews;and what we do not wish to be, we will not be. Our father who hascome so far to tell us that we are not Injins, but Jews, ismistaken. I never heard of these Jews before. I do not wish to hearof them again. When a man has heard enough, he does not keep hisears open willingly. It is then best for the speaker to sit down.The Pottawattamies have shut their ears to the great medicine-priestof the pale-faces. What he says may be true of other tribes, but itis not true of the Pottawatttamies. We are not lost; we are notJews. I have done."

　　This speech was received with general favor. The notion that theIndians were not Indians, but Jews, was far from being agreeable tothose who had heard what had been said on the subject; and theopinions of Crowsfeather possessed the great advantage of reflectingthe common sentiment on this interesting subject. When this is thecase, a very little eloquence or logic goes a great way; and, on thewhole, the address of the last speaker was somewhat better receivedthan that of the first.

　　It was now confidently believed that Peter would rise. But he didnot. That mysterious chief was not yet prepared to speak, or he wasjudiciously exciting expectation by keeping back. There were atleast ten minutes of silent smoking, ere a chief, whose namerendered into English was Bough of the Oak, arose, evidently with adesire to help the time along. Taking his cue from the success ofCrows-feather, he followed up the advantage obtained by that chief,assailing the theory of the missionary from another quarter.

　　"I am an Injin," said Bough of the Oak; "my father was an Injin, andmy mother was the daughter of an Injin. All my fathers were red men,and all their sons. Why should I wish to be anything else? I askedmy brother, the medicine-priest, and he owned that Jews are pale-faces. This he should not have owned if he wished the Injins to beJews. My skin is red. The Manitou of my fathers so painted it, andtheir child will not try to wash out the color. Were the colorwashed out of my face, I should be a pale-face! There would not bepaint enough to hide my shame. No; I was born red, and will die ared man. It is not good to have two faces. An Injin is not a snake,to cast his skin. The skin in which he was born he keeps. He playsin it when a child; he goes in it to his first hunt; the bears andthe deer know him by it; he carries it with him on the warpath, andhis enemies tremble at the sight of it; his squaw knows him by thatskin when he comes back to his wigwam; and when he dies, he is putaside in the same skin in--which he was born. There is but one skin,and it has but one color. At first, it is little. The pappoose thatwears it is little. There is not need of a large skin. But it growswith the pappoose, and the biggest warrior finds his skin aroundhim. This is because the Great Spirit fitted it to him. Whatever theManitou does is good.

　　"My brothers have squaws--they have pappooses. When the pappoose isput into their arms, do they get the paint-stones, and paint it red?They do not. It is not necessary. The Manitou painted it red beforeit was born. How this was done I do not know. I am nothing but apoor Injin, and only know what I see. I have seen that the pappoosesare red when they are born, and that the warriors are red when theydie. They are also red while living. It is enough. Their fatherscould never have been pale-faces, or we should find some white spotson their children. There are none.

　　"Crowsfeather has spoken of the Jews as lost. I am not surprised tohear it. It seems to me that all pale-faces get lost. They wanderfrom their own hunting-grounds into those of other people. It is notso with Injins. The Pottawattamie does not kill the deer of theIowa, nor the Ottawa the deer of the Menomenees. Each tribe knowsits own game. This is because they are not lost. My pale-face fatherappears to wish us well. He has come on a long and weary path totell us about his Manitou. For this I thank him. I thank all whowish to do me good. Them that wish to do me harm I strike frombehind. It is our Injin custom. I do not wish to hurt the medicine-priest, because I think he wishes to do me good, and not to do meharm. He has a strange law. It is to do good to them that do harm toyou. It is not the law of the red men. It is not good law. I do notwonder that the tribes which follow such a law get lost. They cannottell their friends from their enemies. They can have no people toscalp. What is a warrior if he cannot find someone to scalp? No;such a law would make women of the bravest braves in the Openings,or on the prairie. It may be a good law for Jews, who get lost; butit is a bad law for Injins, who know the paths they travel. Letanother speak."

　　This brief profession of faith, on the subject that had been sorecently broached in the council, seemed to give infinitesatisfaction. All present evidently preferred being red men, whoknew where they were, than to be pale-faces who had lost their road.Ignorance of his path is a species of disgrace to an Americansavage, and not a man there would have confessed that his particulardivision of the great human family was in that dilemma. The ideathat the Yankees were "lost," and had got materially astray, wasvery grateful to most who heard it; and Bough of the Oak gained aconsiderable reputation as an orator, in consequence of the luckyhits made on this occasion.

　　Another long, ruminating pause, and much passing of the pipe ofpeace succeeded. It was near half an hour after the last speaker hadresumed his seat, ere Peter stood erect. In that long intervalexpectation had time to increase, and curiosity to augment itself.Nothing but a very great event could cause this pondering, thisdeliberation, and this unwillingness to begin. When, however, thetime did come for the mysterious chief to speak, the man of manyscalps to open his mouth, profound was the attention that prevailedamong all present. Even after he had arisen, the orator stoodsilently looking around him, as if the throes of his thoughts had tobe a little suppressed before he could trust his tongue to give themutterance.

　　"What is the earth?" commenced Peter, in a deep, guttural tone ofvoice, which the death-like stillness rendered audible even to theoutermost boundaries of the circle of admiring and curiouscountenances. "It is one plain adjoining another; river after river;lake after lake; prairie touching prairie; and pleasant woods, thatseem to have no limits, all given to men to dwell in. It would seemthat the Great Spirit parcelled out this rich possession intohunting-grounds for all. He colored men differently. His dearestchildren he painted red, which is his own color. Them that he lovedless he colored less, and they had red only in spots. Them he lovedleast he dipped in a dark dye, and left them black. These are thecolors of men. If there are more, I have not seen them. Some saythere are. I shall think so, too, when I see them.

　　"Brothers, this talk about lost tribes is a foolish talk. We are notlost. We know where we are, and we know where the Yankees have cometo seek us. My brother has well spoken. If any are lost, it is theYankees. The Yankees are Jews; they are lost. The time is near whenthey will be found, and when they will again turn their eyes towardthe rising sun. They have looked so long toward the setting sun,that they cannot see clearly. It is not good to look too long at thesame object. The Yankees have looked at our hunting-grounds, untiltheir eyes are dim. They see the hunting-grounds, but they do notsee all the warriors that are in them. In time, they will learn tocount them.

　　"Brothers, when the Great Spirit made man, he put him to live on theearth. Our traditions do not agree in saying of what he was made.Some say it was of clay, and that when his spirit starts for thehappy hunting-grounds, his body becomes clay again. I do not saythat this is so, for I do not know. It is not good to say that whichwe do not know to be true. I wish to speak only the truth. This wedo know. If a warrior die, and we put him in the earth, and come tolook for him many years afterward, nothing but bones are found. Allelse is gone. I have heard old men say that, in time, even thesebones are not to be found. It is so with trees; it may be so withmen. But it is not so with hunting-grounds. They were made to lastforever.

　　"Brothers, you know why we have come together on this prairie. Itwas to count the pale-faces, and to think of the way of making theirnumber less. Now is a good time for such a thing. They have dug upthe hatchet against each other, and when we hear of scalps takenamong them, it is good for the red men. I do not think our Canadafather is more our friend than the great Yankee, Uncle Sam. It istrue, he gives us more powder, and blankets, and tomahawks, andrifles than the Yankee, but it is to get us to fight his battles. Wewill fight his battles. They are our battles, too. For this reasonwe will fight his enemies.

　　"Brothers, it is time to think of our children. A wise chief oncetold me how many winters it is since a pale-face was first seenamong red men. It was not a great while ago. Injins are living whohave seen Injins, whose own fathers saw the first pale-faces. Theywere few. They were like little children, then; but now they aregrown to be men. Medicine-men are plenty among them, and tell themhow to raise children. The Injins do not understand this. Small-pox,fire-water, bad hunting, and frosts, keep us poor, and keep ourchildren from growing as fast as the children of the pale-faces."Brothers, all this has happened within the lives of three agedchiefs. One told to another, and he told it to a third. Three chiefshave kept that tradition. They have given it to me. I have cutnotches on this stick (holding up a piece of ash, neatly trimmed, asa record) for the winters they told me, and every winter since Ihave cut one more. See; there are not many notches. Some of ourpeople say that the pale-faces are already plentier than leaves onthe trees. I do not believe this. These notches tell us differently.It is true the pale-faces grow fast, and have many children, andsmall-pox does not kill many of them, and their wars are few; butlook at this stick. Could a canoe-full of men become as many as theysay, in so few winters? No; it is not so. The stories we have heardare not true. A crooked tongue first told them. We are strong enoughstill to drive these strangers into the great salt lake, and getback all our hunting-grounds. This is what I wish to have done.

　　"Brothers, I have taken many scalps. This stick will tell thenumber." Here one of those terrible gleams of ferocity to which wehave before alluded, passed athwart the dark countenance of thespeaker, causing all present to feel a deeper sympathy in thethoughts he would express. "There are many. Every one has come fromthe head of a pale-face. It is now twenty winters since I took thescalp of a red man. I shall never take another. We want all of ourown warriors, to drive back the strangers.

　　"Brothers, some Injins tell us of different tribes. They talk aboutdistant tribes as strangers. I tell you we are all children of thesame father. All our skins are red. I see no difference between anOjebway, and a Sac, or a Sioux. I love even a Cherokee." Here verydecided signs of dissatisfaction were manifested by several of thelisteners; parties of the tribes of the great lakes having actuallymarched as far as the Gulf of Mexico to make war on the Indians ofthat region, who were generally hated by them with the most intensehatred. "He has the blood of our fathers in him. We are brothers,and should live together as brothers. If we want scalps, the pale-faces have plenty. It is sweet to take the scalp of a pale-face. Iknow it. My hand has done it often, and will do it again. If everyInjin had taken as many scalps as I have taken, few of thesestrangers would now remain.

　　"Brothers, one thing more I have to say. I wish to hear others, andwill not tell all I know this time. One thing more I have to say,and I now say it. I have told you that we must take the scalps ofall the pale-faces who are now near us. I thought there would havebeen more, but the rest do not come. Perhaps they are frightened.There are only six. Six scalps are not many. I am sorry they are sofew. But we can go where there will be more. One of these six is amedicine-man. I do not know what to think. It may be good to takehis scalp. It may be bad. Medicine-men have great power. You haveseen what this bee-hunter can do. He knows how to talk with bees.Them little insects can fly into small places, and see things thatInjins cannot see. The Great Spirit made them so. When we get backall the land, we shall get the bees with it, and may then hold acouncil to say what it is best to do with them. Until we know more,I do not wish to touch the scalp of that bee-hunter. It may do usgreat harm. I knew a medicine-man of the pale-faces to lose hisscalp, and small-pox took off half the band that made him prisonerand killed him. It is not good to meddle with medicine-men. A fewdays ago, and I wanted this young man's scalp, very much. Now, I donot want it. It may do us harm to touch it. I wish to let him go,and to take his squaw with him. The rest we can scalp."

　　Peter cunningly made no allusion to Margery, until just before heresumed his seat, though now deeply interested in her safety. As forle Bourdon, so profound was the impression he had made that morning,that few of the chiefs were surprised at the exemption proposed inhis favor. The superstitious dread of witchcraft is very generalamong the American savages; and it certainly did seem to behazardous to plot the death of a man, who had even the bees thatwere humming on all sides of them under his control. He might atthat very moment be acquainted with all that was passing; andseveral of the grim-looking and veteran warriors who sat in thecircle, and who appeared to be men able and willing to encounteraught human, did not fail to remember the probability of a medicine-man's knowing who were his friends, and who his enemies.

　　When Peter sat down, there was but one man in the circle of chiefswho was resolved to oppose his design of placing Boden and Margerywithout the pale of the condemned. Several were undecided, scarceknowing what to think of so sudden and strange a proposition, butcould not be said to have absolutely adhered to the original schemeof cutting off all. The exception was Ungque. This man--a chief by asort of sufferance, rather than as a right--was deadly hostile toPeter's influence, as has been said, and was inclined to oppose allhis plans, though compelled by policy to be exceedingly cautious howhe did it. Here, however, was an excellent opportunity to strike ablow, and he was determined not to neglect it. Still, so wily wasthis Indian, so much accustomed to put a restraint on his passionsand wishes, that he did not immediately arise, with the impetuousardor of frank impulses, to make his reply, but awaited his time.

　　An Indian is but a man, after all, and is liable to his weaknesses,notwithstanding the self-command he obtains by severe drilling.Bough of the Oak was to supply a proof of this truth. He had been sounexpectedly successful in his late attempt at eloquence, that itwas not easy to keep him off his feet, now that another goodoccasion to exhibit his powers offered. He was accordingly the nextto speak.

　　"My brothers," said Bough of the Oak, "I am named after a tree. Youall know that tree. It is not good for bows or arrows; it is notgood for canoes; it does not make the best fire, though it willburn, and is hot when well lighted. There are many things for whichthe tree after which I am named is not good. It is not good to eat.It has no sap that Injins can drink, like the maple. It does notmake good brooms. But it has branches like other trees, and they aretough. Tough branches are good. The boughs of the oak will not bend,like the boughs of the willow, or the boughs of the ash, or theboughs of the hickory.

　　"Brothers, I am a bough of the oak. I do not like to bend. When mymind is made up, I wish to keep it where it was first put. My mindhas been made up to take the scalps of all the pale-faces who arenow in the Openings. I do not want to change it. My mind can break,but it can not bend. It is tough."

　　Having uttered this brief but sententious account of his view of thematter at issue, the chief resumed his seat, reasonably wellsatisfied with this, his second attempt to be eloquent that day. Hissuccess this time was not as unequivocal as on the former occasion,but it was respectable. Several of the chiefs saw a reasonable, ifnot a very logical analogy, between a man's name and his mind; andto them it appeared a tolerably fair inference that a man should actup to his name. If his name was tough, he ought to be tough, too. Inthis it does not strike us that they argued very differently fromcivilized beings, who are only too apt to do that which their betterjudgments really condemn, because they think they are acting "incharacter," as it is termed.

　　Ungque was both surprised and delighted with this unexpected supportfrom Bough of the Oak. He knew enough of human nature to understandthat a new-born ambition, that of talking against the great,mysterious chief, Peter, was at the bottom of this unexpectedopposition; but with this he was pleased, rather than otherwise. Anopposition that is founded in reason, may always be reasoned down,if reasons exist therefor; but an opposition that has its rise inany of the passions, is usually somewhat stubborn. All this themean-looking chief, or the Weasel, understood perfectly, andappreciated highly. He thought the moment favorable, and wasdisposed to "strike while the iron was hot." Rising after a decentinterval had elapsed, this wily Indian looked about him, as if awedby the presence in which he stood, and doubtful whether he couldventure to utter his thoughts before so many wise chiefs. Havingmade an impression by this air of diffidence, he commenced hisharangue.

　　"I am called the Weasel," he said, modestly. "My name is not takenfrom the mightiest tree of the forest, like that of my brother; itis taken from a sort of rat--an animal that lives by its wits. I amwell named. When my tribe gave me that name, it was just. All Injinshave not names. My great brother, who told us once that we ought totake the scalp of every white man, but who now tells us that weought not to take the scalp of every white man, has no name. He iscalled Peter, by the pale-faces. It is a good name. But it is apale-face name. I wish we knew the real name of my brother. We donot know his nation or his tribe. Some say he is an Ottawa, some anIowa, some even think him a Sioux. I have heard he was a Delaware,from toward the rising sun. Some, but they must be Injins withforked tongues, think and say he is a Cherokee! I do not believethis. It is a lie. It is said to do my brother harm. Wicked Injinswill say such things. But we do not mind what they say. It is notnecessary.

　　"My brothers, I wish we knew the tribe of this great chief, whotells us to take scalps, and then tells us not to take scalps. Thenwe might understand why he has told us two stories. I believe all hesays, but I should like to know why I believe it. It is good to knowwhy we believe things. I have heard what my brother has said aboutletting this bee-hunter go to his own people, but I do not know whyhe believes this is best. It is because I am a poor Injin, perhaps;and because I am called the Weasel. I am an animal that creepsthrough small holes. That is my nature. The bison jumps through openprairies, and a horse is wanted to catch him. It is not so with theweasel; he creeps through small holes. But he always looks where hegoes.

　　"The unknown chief, who belongs to no tribe, talks of this bee-hunter's squaw. He is afraid of so great a medicine-man, and wisheshim to go, and take all in his wigwam with him. He has no squaw.There is a young squaw in his lodge, but she is not his squaw. Thereis no need of letting her go, on his account. If we take her scalp,he cannot hurt us. In that, my brother is wrong. The bees havebuzzed too near his ears. Weasels can hear, as well as otheranimals; and I have heard that this young squaw is not this bee-hunter's squaw.

　　"If Injins are to take the scalps of all the pale-faces, why shouldwe not begin with these who are in our hands? When the knife isready, and the head is ready, nothing but the hand is wanting.Plenty of hands are ready, too; and it does not seem good to theeyes of a poor, miserable weasel, who has to creep through verysmall holes to catch his game, to let that game go when it is taken.If my great brother, who has told us not to scalp this bee-hunterand her he calls his squaw, will tell us the name of his tribe, Ishall be glad. I am an ignorant Injin, and like to learn all I can;I wish to learn that. Perhaps it will help us to understand why hegave one counsel yesterday, and another to-day. There is a reasonfor it. I wish to know what it is."

　　Ungque now slowly seated himself. He had spoken with greatmoderation, as to manner; and with such an air of humility as one ofour own demagogues is apt to assume, when he tells the people oftheir virtues, and seems to lament the whole time that he, himself,was one of the meanest of the great human family. Peter saw, atonce, that he had a cunning competitor, and had a little difficultyin suppressing all exhibition of the fiery indignation he actuallyfelt, at meeting opposition in such a quarter. Peter was artful, andpractised in all the wiles of managing men, but he submitted to usehis means to attain a great end. The virtual extinction of the whiterace was his object, and in order to effect it, there was little hewould have hesitated to do. Now, however, when for the first time inmany years a glimmering of human feeling was shining on the darknessof his mind, he found himself unexpectedly opposed by one of thosewhom he had formerly found so difficult to persuade into his owndire plans! Had that one been a chief of any renown, thecircumstances would have been more tolerable; but here was a manpresuming to raise his voice against him, who, so far as he knewanything of his past career, had not a single claim to open hismouth in such a council. With a volcano raging within, that such astate of things would be likely to kindle in the breast of a savagewho had been for years a successful and nearly unopposed leader, themysterious chief rose to reply.

　　"My brother says he is a weasel," observed Peter, looking round atthe circle of interested and grave countenances by which he wassurrounded. "That is a very small animal. It creeps through verysmall holes, but not to do good. It is good for nothing. When itgoes through a small hole, it is not to do the Injins a service, butfor its own purposes. I do not like weasels.

　　"My brother is not afraid of a bee-hunter. Can he tell us what a beewhispers? If he can, I wish he would tell us. Let him show our youngmen where there is more honey--where they can find bear's meat foranother feast--where they can find warriors hid in the woods.

　　"My brother says the bee-hunter has no squaw. How does he know this?Has he lived in the lodge with them--paddled in the same canoe--eatof the same venison? A weasel is very small. It might steal into thebee-hunter's lodge, and see what is there, what is doing, what iseaten, who is his squaw, and who is not--has this weasel ever doneso? I never saw him there.

　　"Brothers, the Great Spirit has his own way of doing things. He doesnot stop to listen to weasels. He knows there are such animals--there are snakes, and toads, and skunks. The Great Spirit knows themall, but he does not mind them. He is wise, and hearkens only to hisown mind. So should it be with a council of great chiefs. It shouldlisten to its own mind. That is wisdom. To listen to the mind of aweasel is folly.

　　"Brothers, you have been told that this weasel does not know thetribe of which I am born. Why should you know it? Injins once werefoolish. While the pale-faces were getting one hunting-ground afteranother from them, they dug up the hatchet against their ownfriends. They took each other's scalps. Injin hated Injin--tribehated tribe. I am of no tribe, and no one can hate me for my people.You see my skin. It is red. That is enough. I scalp, and smoke, andtalk, and go on weary paths for all Injins, and not for any tribe. Iam without a tribe. Some call me the Tribeless. It is better to bearthat name, than to be called a weasel. I have done."

　　Peter had so much success by this argumentum ad hominem, that mostpresent fancied that the weasel would creep through some hole, anddisappear. Not so, however, with Ungque. He was a demagogue, afteran Indian fashion; and this is a class of men that ever "makecapital" of abuses, as we Americans say, in our money-gettinghabits. Instead of being frightened off the ground, he arose toanswer as promptly as if a practised debater, though with an air ofhumility so profound, that no one could take offence at hispresumption.

　　"The unknown chief has answered," he said, "I am glad. I love tohear his words. My ears are always open when he speaks, and my mindis stronger. I now see that it is good he should not have a tribe.He may be a Cherokee, and then our warriors would wish him ill."This was a home-thrust, most artfully concealed; a Cherokee beingthe Indian of all others the most hated by the chiefs present;--theCarthaginians of those western Romans. "It is better he should nothave a tribe, than be a Cherokee. He might better be a weasel.

　　"Brothers, we have been told to kill all the pale-faces. I like thatadvice. The land cannot have two owners. If a pale-face owns it, anInjin cannot. If an Injin owns it, a pale-face cannot. But the chiefwithout a tribe tells us not to kill all. He tells us to kill allbut the bee-hunter and his squaw. He thinks this bee-hunter is amedicine bee-hunter, and may do us Injins great harm. He wishes tolet him go.

　　"Brothers, this is not my way of thinking. It is better to kill thebee-hunter and his squaw while we can, that there may be no moresuch medicine bee-hunters to frighten us Injins. If one bee-huntercan do so much harm, what would a tribe of bee-hunters do? I do notwant to see any more. It is a dangerous thing to know how to talkwith bees. It is best that no one should have that power. I wouldrather never taste honey again, than live among pale-faces that cantalk with bees.

　　"Brothers, it is not enough that the pale-faces know so much morethan the red men, but they must get the bees to tell them where tofind honey, to find bears, to find warriors. No; let us take thescalp of the bee-talker, and of his squaw, that there may never besuch a medicine again. I have spoken."

　　Peter did not rise again. He felt that his dignity was involved inmaintaining silence. Various chiefs now uttered their opinions, inbrief, sententious language. For the first time since he began topreach his crusade, the current was setting against the mysteriouschief. The Weasel said no more, but the hints he had thrown out wereimproved on by others. It is with savages as with civilized men; atorrent must find vent. Peter had the sagacity to see that byattempting further to save le Bourdon and Margery, he should onlyendanger his own ascendancy, without effecting his purpose. Here hecompletely overlaid the art of Ungque, turning his own defeat intoan advantage. After the matter had been discussed for fully an hour,and this mysterious chief perceived that it was useless to adhere tohis new resolution, he gave it up with as much tact as the sagaciousWellington himself could manifest in yielding Catholic emancipation,or parliamentary reform; or, just in season to preserve anappearance of floating in the current, and with a grace thatdisarmed his opponents.

　　"Brothers," said Peter, by way of closing the debate, "I have notseen straight. Fog sometimes gets before the eyes, and we cannotsee. I have been in a fog. The breath of my brother has blown itaway. I now see clearly. I see that bee-hunters ought not to live.Let this one die--let his squaw die, too!"

　　This terminated the discussion, as a matter of course. It wassolemnly decided that all the pale-faces then in the Openings shouldbe cut off. In acquiescing in this decision, Peter had no mentalreservations. He was quite sincere. When, after sitting two hourslonger, in order to arrange still more important points, the councilarose, it was with his entire assent to the decision. The only powerhe retained over the subject was that of directing the details ofthe contemplated massacre.