The Reckoning

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER XII

  THENDARA

  Motionless, intent, holding my breath, I listened at the paneled wall.Through the wainscot I could hear the low rustling of paper; and Iseemed to sense some heavier movement within, though the solid floordid not creak, nor a window quiver, nor a footfall sound.

  And now my eyes began traveling cautiously over the paneled wall,against which I had laid my ear. No crack or seam indicated a hiddendoor, yet I knew there must be one, and gently pressed the wainscotwith my shoulder. It gave, almost imperceptibly; I pressed again, andthe hidden door opened a hair's breadth, a finger's breadth, an inch,widening, widening noiselessly; and I bent forward and peered intoanother closet like the one I stood in, also lighted by a loop forrifle-fire. As my head advanced, first a corner of the floor litteredwith papers came into my range of vision, then an angle of the wall,then a shadowy something which I could not at first make out--and Iopened the door a little wider--scarcely an inch--holding it there.

  The shadowy something moved; it was a human foot; and the next instantmy eyes fell on a figure, partly in shade, partly in the light from theloophole--an Indian, kneeling, absorbed in deciphering a document heldflat on the bare floor.

  Astounded, almost incredulous, I glared at the vision. Gradually theshock of the surprise subsided; details took shape under my wonderingeyes--the slim legs, doubled under, clothed with fringed and beadedleggings to the hips, the gorgeously embroidered sporran, moccasins, andclout, the smooth, naked back, gleaming like palest amber under curtainsof stiffly strung scarlet-and-gold traders' wampum--traders' wampum?What did _that_ mean? And what did those heavy, double masses of hairindicate--those soft, twisted ropes of glossy hair, braided half-waywith crimson silk shot with silver, then hanging a cloudy shock of blackto the belted waist?

  Here was no Iroquois youth--no adolescent of the Long House attired forany rite I ever heard of. The hip-leggings were of magnificent Algonquinwork; the quill-set, sinew-embroidered moccasins, too. That stringy,iridescent veil of rose, scarlet, and gold wampum on the naked body was_de fantasie_; the belt and knife-sheath pure Huron. As for thegipsy-like arrangement of the hair, no Iroquois boy ever wore it thatway; it hinted of the _gens de prairie_. What on earth did it mean?There was no paint on limb or body to guide me. Never had I seen such abeing so dressed for any rite or any practise in North America! Oh, ifLittle Otter were only here! I stole a glance out of the loop, but sawnothing save the pale sunshine on the weeds. If the Oneida had arrived,he had surely already found my horse tied in the lilac thicket, andsurely he would follow me where the weeds showed him I had passed. Hemight wait for a while; but if I emerged not from the house I knew hewould be after me, smelling along like a wolfhound until he had trackedme to a standstill. Should I wait for him? I looked at the kneelingfigure. So absorbed was the strange young Indian in the document on thefloor that I strained my eyes to make out its script, but could notdecipher even the corner of the paper exposed to my view. Then itoccurred to me that it was a strange thing for an Indian to read. Scarceone among the Iroquois, save Brant and the few who had been to Dr.Wheelock's school, knew A from Zed, or could more than scrawl theirclan-mark to a birchen letter.

  Suspicious lest, after all, I had to do with a blue-eyed Indian orpainted Tory, I examined the unconscious reader thoroughly. And, aftera little while, a strange apprehension settled into absolute convictionas I looked. So certain was I that every gathered muscle relaxed; Idrew a deep, noiseless breath of relief, smiling to myself, and steppedcoolly forward, letting the secret door swing to behind me with adeadened thud.

  Like a startled tree-cat the figure sprang to its feet, whirling toconfront me. And I laughed again, for I was looking into the dark,dilated eyes of a young girl.

  "Have no fear," I began quietly; and the next instant the words weredriven into my throat, for she was on me in one bound, hunting-knifeglittering.

  Round the walls we reeled, staggering, wrestling, clinched likeinfuriated wolverines. I had her wrist in my grip, squeezing it, andthe bright, sparkling knife soon clattered to the boards, but shesuddenly set her crooked knee inside mine and tripped me headlong,hurling us both sideways to the floor, where we rolled, desperatelylocked, she twisting and reaching for the knife again and again, untilI kicked it behind me and staggered to my feet, dragging her with me inall her fury. But her maddened strength, her sinuous twisting, hercourage, so astonished me that again and again she sent me reelingalmost to my knees, taxing my agility and my every muscle to keep herfrom tripping me flat and recovering her knife. At length she began tosway; her dark, defiant eyes narrowed to two flaming slits; herdistorted mouth weakened into sullen lines, through which I caught theflash of locked teeth crushing back the broken, panting breath. I heldher like a vise; she could no longer move. And when at last she knewit, her rigid features, convulsed with rage, relaxed into a blank,smooth mask of living amber.

  For a moment I held her, feeling her whole body falling loose-limbedand limp--held her until her sobbing breath grew quieter and moreregular. Then I released her; she reeled, steadying herself against thewall with one hand; and, stepping back, I sank one knee, and whippedthe knife from the floor.

  That she now looked for death at my hands was perfectly evident, Ibeing dressed as a forest-runner who knows no sex when murder is afoot.I saw the flushed face pale slightly; the lip curl contemptuously.Proudly she lifted her head, haughtily faced me.

  "Dog of bastard nation!" she panted; "look me between the eyes andstrike!"

  "Little sister," I answered gravely, using the soft Oneida idiom, "letthere be peace between us."

  A flash of wonder lit her dark eyes. And I said again, smiling: "OHeart-divided-into-two-hearts, te-ha-eho-eh, you are like him whom wename, after 'The Two Voices'--we of the Wolf. Therefore is there peaceand love 'twixt thee and me."

  The wonder in her eyes deepened; her whole body quivered.

  "Who are you with a white skin who speak like a crested sachem?" shefaltered.

  "Tat-sheh-teh, little sister. I bear the quiver, but my war-arrows arebroken."

  "Oneida!" she exclaimed softly, clasping her hands between her breasts.

  I stepped closer, holding out my arms; slowly she laid her hands inmine, looking fearlessly up into my face. I turned her palms upward andplaced the naked knife across them; she bent her head, thenstraightened up, looking me full in the eyes.

  Still smiling, I laid both my hands on the collar of my hunting-shirt,baring throat and chest; and, as the full significance of the tinytattoo dawned upon her, she shivered.

  "Tharon!" she stammered. "Thou! What have I done!" And, shuddering,cast the knife at my feet as though it had been the snake that rattles.

  "Little sister----"

  "Oh, no! no! What have I done! What have I dared! I have raised my handagainst Him whom you have talked with face to face----"

  "Only Tharon has done that," I said gently, "I but wear his sign.Peace, Woman of the Morning. There is no injury where there is nointent. We are not yet '_at the Forest's Edge_.'"

  Slowly the color returned to lip and cheek, her fascinated eyes roamedfrom my face to the tattooed wolf and mark of Tharon crossing it. Andafter a little she smiled faintly at my smile, as I said:

  "I have drawn the fangs of the Wolf; fear no more, Daughter of theSun."

  "I--I fear no more," she breathed.

  "Shall an ensign of the Oneida cherish wrath?" I asked. "He who bears aquiver has forgotten. See, child; it is as it was from the beginning.Hiro."

  I calmly seated myself on the floor, knees gathered in my claspedhands; and she settled down opposite me, awaiting in instinctivesilence my next words.

  "Why does my sister wear the dress of an adolescent, mocking the FalseFaces, when the three fires are not yet kindled?" I asked.

  "I hold the fire-right," she said quickly. "Ask those who wear the maskwhere cherries grow. O sachem, those cherries were ripe ere I was!"

  I thought a moment, then fixed my eager eyes on her.
r />   "Only the Cherry-Maid of Adriutha has that right," I said. My heart,beating furiously, shook my voice, for I knew now who she was.

  "I am Cherry-Maid to the three fires," she said; "in bud at Adriutha,in blossom at Carenay, in fruit at Danascara."

  "Your name?"

  "Lyn Montour."

  I almost leaped from the floor in my excitement; yet the engraftedOneida instinct of a sachem chained me motionless. "You are the wife ofWalter Butler," I said deliberately, in English.

  A wave of crimson stained her face and shoulders. Suddenly she coveredher face with her hands.

  "Little sister," I said gently, "is it not the truth? Does aQuiver-bearer lie, O Blossom of Carenay?"

  Her hands fell away; she raised her head, the tears shining on herheavy lashes: "It is the truth."

  "His wife?" I repeated slowly.

  "His wife, O Bearer of Arrows! He took me at the False Faces' feast,and the Iroquois saw. Yet the cherries were still green at Danascara.Twice the Lenape covered their faces; twice 'The Two Voices' unveiledhis face. So it was done there on the Kennyetto." She leaned swiftlytoward me: "Twice he denied me at Niagara. Yet once, when our love wasnew--when I still loved him--he acknowledged me here in this veryhouse, in the presence of a County Magistrate, Sir John Johnson. I amhis wife, I, Lyn Montour! I have never lied to woman or man, O my elderbrother!"

  "And that is why you have come back?"

  "Yes; to search--for something to help me--some record--God knows!--Ihave searched and searched--" She stretched out her bare arms and gazedhopelessly around the paper-littered floor.

  "Will not Sir John uphold you with his testimony?" I asked.

  "He? No! He also denies it. What can a woman expect of a man who hasbroken parole?" she added, in contempt.

  I leaned toward her, speaking slowly, and with deadly emphasis:

  "Dare Walter Butler deny what the Iroquois Nation may attest?"

  "He dare," she said, burning eyes on mine. "I am more Algonquin thanHuron, and more than nine-tenths white. What is it to the Iroquois thatthis man puts me away? It was the Mohican and Lenape who veiled theirfaces, not the Iroquois. What is it to white men that he took me andhas now put me away? What is it to them that he now takes another?"

  "Another? Whom?" My lips scarcely formed the question.

  "I do not know her name. When he returned from the horrors of CherryValley Sir Frederick Haldimand refused to see him. Yet he managed tomake love to Sir Frederick's kinswoman--a child--as I was when he tookme----"

  She closed her eyes. I saw the lashes all wet again, but her voice didnot tremble: "He is at Niagara with his Rangers--or was. And--when Icame to him he laughed at me, bidding me seek a new lover at thefort----"

  Her voice strangled. Twisting her fingers, she sat there, eyes closed,dumb, miserable. At last she gasped out: "O Quiver-bearer, with a whitevoice and a skin scarce whiter than my own, though your nation besundered from the Long House, though I be an outcast of clans andnations, speak to me kindly, for my sadness is bitter, and the ghost ofmy dead honor confronts me in every forest-trail!" She stretched outher arms piteously:

  "Teach me, brother; instruct me; heal my bruised heart of hate for thisyoung man who was my undoing--cleanse my fierce, desirous heart. I lovehim no longer; I--I dare not hate him lest I slay him ere he rights mywrongs. My sorrow is heavier than I can bear--and I am young, Osachem--not yet eighteen--until the snow flies."

  She laid her face in her hands once more; through her slim fingers thebright tears fell slowly.

  "Are you Christian, little sister?" I asked, wondering.

  "I do not know. They say so. A brave Jesuit converted me ere I wasunstrapped from the cradle-board--ere I could lisp or toddle. God knows.My own brother died in war-paint; my grandmother was French Margaret, mymother--if she be my mother--is the Huron witch of Wyoming; some callher Catrine, some Esther. Yet I was chaste--till _he_ took me--chaste asan Iroquois maid. Thus has he wrought with me. Teach me to forgive him!"

  And _this_ the child of Catrine Montour? This that bestial creature theydescribed to me as some slim, fierce temptress of the forests?

  "Listen," I said gently; "if you are wedded by a magistrate, you arehis wife; yet if that magistrate falsely witnesses against you, you cannot prove it. I would give all I have to prove your marriage. Do youunderstand?"

  She looked at me, uncomprehending.

  "The woman I love is the woman he now claims as wife," I said calmly.Then, in that strange place, alone there together in the dim light, shelying full length on the floor, her hands clasped on my knees, told meall. And there, together, we took counsel how to bring this man tojudgment--not the Almighty's ultimate punishment, not even that sternretribution which an outraged world might exact, but a mercifulpenance--the public confession of the tie that bound him to this younggirl. For, among the Iroquois, an unchaste woman is so rare that when amaiden commits the fault she is like a leper until death releases herfrom her awful isolation.

  Together, too, we searched the littered papers on the floor, piece bypiece, bit by bit, but all in vain. And while kneeling there I heard astealthy step behind me, and looked back over my shoulder, to see theOneida, Little Otter, peering in at us, eyeballs fairly starting fromhis painted face. Lyn Montour eyed him silently, and withoutexpression, but I laughed to see how surely he had followed me as I hadexpected; and motioned him away to await my coming.

  It was, I should judge, nearly five o'clock when we descended by theopen stairway to the ground floor. I held the window wide; she placedher hands on the sill and leaped lightly to the grass. I followed.Presently the lilac thicket parted and the tall Oneida appeared,leading my horse. One keen, cunning glance he gave at the girl, then,impassive, stood bolt upright beside my horse. He was superb, strippednaked to clout and moccasin, head shaved, body oiled and mostelaborately painted; and on his broad breast glimmered the Wolf linedin sapphire-blue. When the long roll of the dead thundered through thecouncil-house, his name was the fourth to be called--Shononses. Andnever was chief of the Oneida nation more worthy to lift the antlersthat no grave must ever cover while the Long House endures.

  "Has my brother learned news of the gathering in the north?" I asked,studying the painted symbols on his face and body.

  "The council sits at dawn," he replied quietly.

  "At dawn!" I exclaimed. "Why, we have no time, then----"

  "There is time, brother. There is always time to die."

  "To--die!" I looked at him, startled. Did he, then, expect no mercy atthe council? He raised his eyes to me, smiling. There was nothing offear, nothing of boastfulness, even, in attitude or glance. His dignityappalled me, for I knew what it meant. And, suddenly, the fullsignificance of his paint flashed upon me.

  "You think there is no chance for us?" I repeated.

  "None, brother."

  "And yet you go?"

  "And you, brother?"

  "I am ordered; I am pledged to take such chances. But you need not go,Little Otter. See, I free you now. Leave me, brother. I desire it."

  "Shononses will stay," he said impassively. "Let the Long House learnhow the Oneidas die."

  I shuddered and looked again at his paint. It was inevitable; noorders, no commands, no argument could now move him. He understood thathe was about to die, and he had prepared himself. All I could hope forwas that he had mistaken the temper of the council; that the insolenceof a revolted nation daring to present a sachem at the Federal-Councilmight be overlooked--might be condoned, even applauded by those whocherished in their dark hearts, locked, the splendid humanity of theancient traditions. But there was no knowing, no prophesying whataction a house divided might take, what attitude a people maddened bydissensions, wrought to frenzy by fraternal conflict, might assume. Godknows the white man's strife was barbarous enough, brother murderingbrother beneath the natal roof. What, then, might be looked for fromthe fierce, proud people whose Confederacy was steadily crumblingbeneath our touch; whose crops and forests and villages had g
oneroaring up into flames as the vengeance of Sullivan, with his Rangers,his Continentals, and his Oneidas, passed over their lands in fire!

  "Where sits the council?" I asked soberly.

  "At the Dead-Water."

  It was an all-night journey by the Fish House-trails, for we dared notstrike the road, with Sir John's white demons outlying from theconfluence to Frenchman's creek.

  I looked at my horse. Little Otter had strapped ammunition andprovisions to the saddle, leaving room for a rider. I turned to LynMontour; she laid her hands on my shoulders, and I swung her up astridethe saddle.

  "Now," I said briefly; and we filed away into the north, the Oneidaleading at a slow trot.

  I shall never forget the gloom, the bitter misery of that dark trailwhere specters ever stared at me as I journeyed, where ghosts arose inevery trail--pale wraiths of her I loved, calling me back to loveagain. And "Lost, lost, lost!" wept the little brooks we crossed, allsobbing, whispering her name.

  What an end of all--to die now, leaving life's work unfinished, life'sdesire unsatisfied--all that I loved unprotected and alone on earth.What an end to it all--and I had done nothing for the cause, nothingexcept the furtive, obscure work which others shrank from! And now,skulking to certain death, was denied me even the poor solace of anhonored memory. Here in this shaggy desolation no ray of glory mightpenetrate to gild my last hour with a hero's halo; contempt must be myreward if I failed. I must die amid the scornful laughter of Iroquoiswomen, the shrill taunts of children, the jeers of renegade white men,who pay a thief more honor at the cross-roads gallows than they pay aconvicted spy. Why, I might not even hope for the stern and dignifiedjustice that the Oneida awaited--an iron justice that respected thevictim it destroyed; for he came openly as a sachem of a disobedientnation in revolt, daring to justify his nation and his clan. But I wasto act if not to speak a lie; I was to present myself as a sleeknon-partizan, symbolizing only a nobility of the great Wolf clan. And ifany man accused me as a spy, and if suspicion became conviction, thehorrors of my degradation would be inconceivable. Yet, plying once moremy abhorred trade, I could only obey, hope against hope, and strive toplay the man to the end, knowing what failure meant, knowing, too, whatmy reward for success might be--a low-voiced "Thank you" in secret, agrasp of the hands behind locked doors--a sum of money pressed on meslyly--_that_ hurt most of all--to put it away with a smile, and keep mytemper. Good God! Does a Renault serve his country for money! Why,_why_, can they not understand, and spare me that!--the wages of thewretched trade!

  Darkness had long since infolded us; we had slackened to a walk, movingforward between impervious walls of blackness. And always on thecurtain of the inky shadow I saw Elsin's pallid face gazing upon me,until the vision grew so real that I could have cried out in myanguish, reeling forward, on, ever on, through a blackness thick as thevery shadows of the pit that hides lost souls!

  At midnight we halted for an hour. The Oneida ate calmly; Lyn Montourtasted the parched corn, and drank at an unseen spring that bubbled adrear lament amid the rocks. Then we descended into the Drowned Lands,feeling our spongy trail between osier, alder, and willow. Once, veryfar away, I saw a light, pale as a star, low shining on the marsh. Itwas the Fish House, and we were near our journey's end--perhaps the endof all journeys, save that last swift trail upward among those thousandstars!

  It was near to dawn when we came out upon the marsh; and above, I heardthe whir and whimpering rush of wild ducks passing, the waking call ofbirds, twittering all around us in the darkness; the low undertone ofthe black water flowing to the Sacandaga.

  Over the quaking marsh we passed, keeping the trodden trail, nowwading, now ankle-deep in cranberry, now up to our knees in moss, nowlost in the high marsh-grass, on, on, through birch hummocks, willows,stunted hemlocks and tamaracks, then on firm ground once more, with theoak-mast under foot, and the white dawn silvering the east, and myhorse breathing steam as he toiled on.

  Suddenly I was aware of a dark figure moving through the marsh,parallel, and close to me. The Oneida stopped, stared, then drew hisblanket around him and sat down at the foot of a great oak.

  We had arrived at Thendara! Now, all around us in the dim glade, tallforms moved--spectral shapes of shadowy substance that drifted hitherand thither, passing, repassing, melting into the gloom around, until Icould scarce tell them from the shreds of marsh fog that rose andfloated through the trees around us.

  Slowly the heavens turned to palest gold, then to saffron. All about usshadowy throngs arose to face the rising sun. A moment of intensestillness, then a far, faint cry, "Koue!" And the glittering edge ofthe sun appeared above the wooded heights. Blinding level rays fell onthe painted faces of the sachems of the Long House, advancing to theforest's edge; the Oneida strode forward, head erect, and I, with asign to the girl at my side, followed.

  As we walked through the long, dead grass, I, watching sidewise, notedthe absence of the Senecas. Was it for them the condolence? Suddenly itstruck me that to our side of the circle belonged the duty of the firstrites. Who would speak? Not the Oneidas, for there was none, exceptLittle Otter and myself. Who then? The Cayugas?

  I shot a side glance among the slowly moving forms. Ah! that was it! ACayuga sachem led the march.

  The circle was already forming. I saw the Senecas now; I saw all thesachems seating themselves in a cleared space where a birch firesmoldered, sweetening the keen morning air with its writhing, aromaticsmoke; I saw the Oneida cross proudly to his place on our side; and Iseated myself beside him, raising my eyes to the towering figure ofTahtootahoo, the chief sachem and ensign of the great Bear Clan of theOnondaga nation, who stood beside the Cayuga spokesman in whisperedconference.

  To and fro strode the Cayuga, heavy head bent; to and fro, pacing thecircle like a stupefied panther. Once his luminous eyes gleamed onmine, shifted blankly to the Oneida, and thence along the motionlesscircle of painted faces. Mohawk, Seneca, Onondaga were there, forminghalf the circle; Oneida, Cayuga, and Tuscarora welded it to a ring. Iglanced fearfully from ensign to ensign, but saw no Delaware present;and my heart leaped with hope. Walter Butler had lied to me; theLenni-Lenape had never sat at this rite; his mongrel clan had no voicehere. He had lied.

  The pipe had been lighted and was passing in grave silence. I receivedit from a Tuscarora, used it, and handed it to the Oneida, watching thechief sachem of the Senecas as he arose to deliver his brief address ofwelcome. He spoke in the Seneca dialect, and so low that I couldunderstand him only with greatest difficulty, learning nothing exceptthat a Seneca Bear was to be raised up to replace a dead chief slain atSharon.

  Then a very old sachem arose and made a sign which was the symbol oftravel. We touched hands and waited, understanding the form prescribed.Alas, the mourning Senecas had no longer a town to invite us to; therite must be concluded where we sat; we must be content with the skyfor the roof which had fallen in on the Long House, the tall oaks forthe lodge-poles, the east and west for the doors broken down by theinvasion.

  Solemnly the names of the score and three legendary towns were recited,first those of the Wolf, next of the Tortoise, then of the Bear; and Isaw my Wolf-brethren of the four classes of the Mohawks and Cayugasstaring at me as I rose when they did and seated myself at the callingof my towns. And, by heaven! I noted, too, that the Tuscaroras of theGrey Wolf and the Yellow Wolf knew their places, and rose only after wewere seated. Except for the Onondaga Tortoise, a cleft clan awaits thepleasure of its betters. Even a Delaware should know that much, butWalter Butler was ever a liar, for it is not true that the Anowara orTortoise is the noble clan, nor yet the Ocquari. It is the Wolf, theOquacho Clan; and the chiefs of the Wolf come first of all!

  Suddenly the sonorous voice of the Seneca broke the silence,pronouncing the opening words of the most sacred rite of the Iroquoispeople:

  "_Now to-day I have been greatly startled by your voice comingthrough the forest to this opening_----"

  The deep, solemn tones of the ancient chant fell on the sile
nce like thenotes of a sad bell. It was, then, to be a double rite. Which nationamong the younger brothers mourned a chief? I looked at the Oneidabeside me; his proud smile softened. Then I understood. Good God! Theywere mourning him, _him_, as though he were already dead!

  The Seneca's voice was sounding in my ears: "_Now, therefore, you whoare our friends of the Wolf Clan_----" I scarcely heard him. Presentlythe "Salute" rolled forth from the council; they were intoning the"Karenna."

  I laid my hand on the Oneida's wrist; his pulse was calm, nor did itquicken by a beat as the long roll of the dead was called:

  "_Continue to listen, Thou who wert ruler, Hiawatha! Continue to listen, Thou who wert ruler: That was the roll of you-- You who began it-- You who completed The Great League!-- Continue to listen, Thou who wert ruler: That was the roll of you_----"

  The deep cadence of the chanting grew to a thunderous sound; name aftername of the ancient dead was called, and the thrilling responseswelled, culminating in a hollow shout. Then a pause, and the solemntones of a single voice intoning the final words of gloom.

  For ten full minutes there was not a sound except the faint snapping ofthe smoking birch twigs. Then up rose the chief sachem of the Cayugas,cast aside his blanket, faced the circle, dark, lean arm outstretched;and from his lips flowed the beautiful opening words of the YoungerNations:

  "_Yo o-nen o-nen wen-ni-teh onen_----"

  "_Now--now this day--now I come to your door where you mourn.... I will enter your door and come before the ashes and mourn with you there. And these words will I speak to comfort you!_"

  The music of the voice thrilled me:

  "_To the warriors, to the women, and also to the children; and also to the little ones creeping on the ground, and also to those still tied to the cradle-board.... This we say, we three brothers...._

  "_Now another thing we will say, we younger brothers. You mourn. I will clear the sky for you so that you shall not behold a cloud. And also I give the sun to shine upon you, so that you can look peacefully upon it when it goes down. You shall see it when it is going. Yea, ye shall look peacefully upon it when it goes down...._

  "_Now another thing we say, we younger brothers. If any one should fall, then the antlers shall be left on the grave...._

  "_Now another thing we say, we younger brothers. We will gird the belt on you with the quiver, and the next death will receive the quiver whenever you shall know that there is death among us, when the fire is made and the smoke is rising. This we say and do, we three brothers._

  "_Now I have finished. Now show me the man!_"

  Slowly the Oneida rose from my side and crossed the circle. Every eyewas on him; he smiled as he halted, sweeping the throng with a tranquilglance. Then, drawing his blanket about him he stepped from thesanctuary of the council-ring out into the forest; and after him glideda Mohawk warrior, with face painted black, in token of his terrificoffice.

  A dead silence fell upon the council.

  The pulse was drumming in ears and throat when I arose; and, as theMohawk executioner slipped noiselessly past me, I seized him by theclout-belt, and, summoning every atom of strength, hurled him headlongat my feet, so that he lay stunned and like one dead.

  A roar of astonishment greeted me; a score of voices cried out savagelyon my violation of the fire.

  "It is you who violate it!" I answered, trembling with fury; "you whodare pronounce the sentence of death without consulting the fourclasses of the Oneida!"

  A Mohawk sachem arose, casting his scarlet robes at his feet, andpointed at me, hissing: "Where are the Oneida classes? I dare you totell us where the ensigns hide! Where are they? Speak!"

  "Here!" I said, tearing my cape open. "Read that sign, O Canienga! Ianswer for the four classes of my nation, and I say that Oneida shallgo free! Now let him who dare accuse me stand forth. It is a Wolf ofTharon who has spoken!"

  Absolute silence greeted me. I had risked all on the hazard.

  The executioner had staggered to his feet again, and now stood outsidethe circle leaning against a young oak-tree, half stunned, mechanicallyrubbing the twigs and dead leaves from the sticky black paint thatmasked his visage. I wheeled on him and bade him remain where he wasuntil the council's will was made known; then I walked into the circle;and when they cried out that I had no franchise, I laughed at them,challenging them to deny me my right to stand here for the entireOneida nation.

  For there was nothing now to do but to carry the desperate enterprisethrough or perish. I dared not stop to consider; to attempt to rememberprecedents. I turned on the Mohawks haughtily, demanding that privilegewhich even they could not refuse; I claimed clan-brotherhood from everyWolf in the Long House; and when the council accorded it, I spoke:

  "Now I say to you, O you wise men and sachems, that this Oneida shallnot die, because the four classes speak through my mouth! Who is thereto give me the lie? Why are your eight score Oneidas absent--the eightscore who still remain in the Long House? Surely, brothers, there aresachems among them? Why are they not here? Do you fear they might notagree to the punishment of the Oneida nation?"

  I folded my arms and stared at the Mohawks.

  "Clan ties are close, national ties closer, but strongest and closest ofall, the six iron links that form the Great League! Why do you punishnow? _How_ can you punish now? Is it well to break the oldest League lawto punish those who have broken the law of the League?"

  A Mohawk sachem answered in a dozen stinging words that the Leagueitself was broken; but ere he could finish I stopped him with agesture.

  Then, summoning all my powers, I burst out into a passionate protest,denying that the Great League was broken, glorying in its endurance,calling on every nation to uphold it. And instantly, although not amuscle moved nor a word was uttered, I felt that I had the council withme, that my passion was swaying them, that what I asserted theybelieved. I laughed at the neutrality of the Tuscaroras, at thehalf-hearted attitude of the Onondagas; I made light of the rebellionof the greater portion of the Oneida nation.

  "It is a passing fancy, a whim. The battle-breeze from this white man'swar has risen to a tempest, unroofing the Long House, scattering youfor the moment, creating a disorder, inciting a passion foreign to thetraditions of the Iroquois. I tell you to let the tempest pass andblame no one, neither Tuscarora, Onondaga, nor Oneida. And when thestorm has died out, let the Six Nations gather again from theirhiding-places and build for the Long House a new roof, and raise newlodge-poles, lest the sky fall down and the Confederacy lie in ashesforever!"

  I had ended. A profound hush followed, broken by a low word ofapproval, then another, then another. Excited, scarcely knowing what Ihad done, incredulous that I alone had actually stemmed the tide, and,in a breath, overturned the entire plan of the Butlers and of thedemoralized Iroquois, I seated myself beside the Tuscaroras, breathingheavily, alert for a sound that might indicate how my harangue had beenreceived.

  Muttered expressions of approval, an emphatic word here and there, andnot an orator to dispute me!--why, this was victory--though, until theclans had deliberated, I could not know the Federal verdict. Butgradually it dawned on me that I had at least stopped the murder of myOneida, and had lulled all suspicion concerning myself. With a thrillof joy I heard the Seneca spokesman call for the youth to be raised inplace of the dead chief; with a long-drawn breath of relief I saw theancient belts brought, and listened to the reading of the archives fromthem.

  The council ended. One by one the sachems spoke to me kindly, then wenttheir way, some taking to canoes, others filing off through the forest,until I found myself standing there alone before the smoldering fire,the forest before me, the noon sun blazing overhead.

  The Oneida, motionless now in the midst of those who had but an hourbefore decreed his death, watched the plumed sachems pass him insilence. Neither he nor they uttered a word; but when the last canoehad glided off down the Dead W
ater toward the Sacandaga, and the lasttall form faded from view in thicket, marsh, and forest, Little Otterturned and came quietly to me, laying my hands on his heart, andlooking me steadily in the eyes. Then together we returned, picking ourpath through the marsh, until we came to Lyn Montour. As she rose tomeet us, a distant sound in the forest attracted the Oneida'sattention. I heard it, too; it was the gallop of horses, coming fromthe north. No Iroquois rode a horse.

  Nearer, nearer sounded the drumming thud of the hoofs. I could feel thesodden marsh jarring now--hear the brush crackle and snap.

  Suddenly a horseman galloped out of the forest's edge, drew bridle atthe clearing, bent and examined the covered fire, struck his forehead,and stared around him.

  The horseman was Walter Butler.