The speaker paused to let his words sink in. Menard whispered to the maid, in reply to an inquiring look. "He means the Governor's base of supplies at La Famine."

The Onondaga's voice began to rise.

"When the Oneida thinks of his corn, is he afraid to leave it to his squaws? Does he hesitate because he thinks the white warriors are strong enough to turn on him and drive him from his villages? This is not the speech that young warriors are taught to expect from the Long House. When has the Long House been guided by fear? No. If the Oneida is hungry, let him eat from the stores of the white man, at the house on the Lake. The Cayugas and Onondagas will draw their belts tighter, that the Oneida may be filled."

The young chief looked defiantly around. There was a murmur from the outer circle, but the chiefs were grave and silent. The Hundred Skins gazed meditatively into the fire as if he had not heard, slowly puffing at his pipe. The taunt of cowardice had sprung out in the heat of youth; his dignity demanded that he ignore it. The speech had its effect on the Cayugas and the young men, but the older heads were steady.

Other chiefs rose, talked, and resumed their places, giving all views of the situation and of the relations between the Iroquois and the French,--but still little expression showed on the inner circle of faces. The maid after a time grew more accustomed to the smoke, and sat up. She was puzzled by the conflicting arguments and the lack of enthusiasm. Fully two hours had pa.s.sed, and there was no sign of an agreement. The eager spectators, in the outer rows, gradually settled down.

During a lull between two speeches, Menard spoke to the maid, who was beginning to show traces of weariness.

"It may be a long sitting, Mademoiselle. We must make the best of it."

"Yes." She smiled. "I am a little tired. It has been a hard day."

"Too hard, poor child. But I hope to see you safe very soon now. I am relying on the Big Throat. He, with a few of the older chiefs, sees farther than these hot-heads. He knows that France must conquer in the end, and is wise enough to make terms whenever he can."

"But can he, M'sieu? Will they obey him?"

"Not obey, exactly; he will not command them. Indians have no discipline such as ours. The chiefs rely on their judgment and influence. But they have followed the guidance of the Big Throat for too many years to leave it now."

Another chief rose to speak. The sun had gone, and the long building was growing dark rapidly. A number of squaws came through the circle, throwing wood on the fires. The new flames shot up, and threw a flickering light on the copper faces, many of which still wore the paint of the morning. The smoke lay over them in wavering films, now and again half hiding some sullen face until it seemed to fade away into the darkness.

At last the whole situation lay clear before the council. Some speakers were for war, some for peace, others for aiding the Senecas as a matter of principle. The house was divided.

There was a silence, and the pipes glowed in the dusk; then the Long Arrow rose. The listless spectators stirred and leaned forward. The maid, too, was moved, feeling that at last the moment of decision was near. She was surprised to see that he had none of the savage excitement of the morning. He was as quiet and tactful in speech as the Big Throat himself.

Slowly the Long Arrow drew his blanket close about him and began to speak. The house grew very still, for the whole tribe knew that he had, in his anger of the morning, disputed the authority of the Big Throat. There had been hot words, and the great chief had rebuked him contemptuously within the hearing of half a hundred warriors. Now he was to stand before the council, and not a man in that wide circle but wondered how much he would dare to say.

He seemed not to observe the curious glances. Simply and quietly he began the narrative of the capture of the hunting party at Fort Frontenac. At the first words Menard turned to Father Claude with a meaning look. The maid saw it, and her lips framed a question.

"It is better than I hoped," Menard whispered. "He is bringing it up himself."

"Not two moons have waned," the Long Arrow was saying, "since five score brave young warriors left our village for the hunt. They left the hatchet buried under the trees. They took no war-paint. The Great Mountain had said that there was peace between the redman and the white man; he had asked the Onondagas to hunt on the banks of the Great River; he had told them that his white sons at the Stone House would take them as brothers into their lodges. When the Great Mountain said this, through the mouths of the holy Fathers, he lied."

The words came out in the same low, even tone in which he had begun speaking, but they sank deep. The house was hushed; even the stirring of the children on the benches died away.

"The Great Mountain has lied to his children,"--Menard's keen ears caught the bitter, if covered, sarcasm in the last two words; they had been Governor Frontenac's favourite term in addressing the Iroquois--"and his children know his voice no longer. There is corn in the fields? Let it grow or rot. There are squaws and children in our lodges? Let them live or die. It is not the Senecas who ask our aid; it is the voice of a hundred sons and brothers and youths and squaws calling from far beyond the great water,--calling from chains, calling from fever, calling from the Happy Hunting Ground, where they have gone without guns or corn or blankets, where they lie with nothing to comfort them." The Long Arrow stood erect, with head thrown back and eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "Our sons and brothers went like children to the Stone House of the white man.

Their hands were stretched before them, their muskets hung empty from their shoulders, their bowstrings were loosened; the calumet was in their hands. But the sons of Onontio lied as their fathers had taught them. They took the calumet; they called the Onondagas into their great lodge; and in the sleep of the white man's fire-water they chained them. Five score Onondagas have gone to be slaves to the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children and is kind to them, and would take them all under his arm where no storm can harm them. My brothers of the Long House have heard the promises of Onontio, and they have seen the fork in his tongue. And so they choose this time to speak of corn and squaws and children." The keen, closely set eyes slowly lowered and swept around the circle.

"Is this the time to speak of corn? Our Manitou has sent this Great Mountain into our country. He has placed him in our hands so that we may strike, so that we may tell the white man with our muskets that our Manitou is stern and just, and that no Iroquois will listen to the idle words of a double tongue."

He paused, readjusted his blanket, and then stood motionless, that all might digest his words. Then, after a long wait, he went on:--

"There are children to-day in our lodges who can remember the Big Buffalo, who can remember our adopted son who shared our fires and food, who shared our hunts, who lived with us as freely as an Onondaga. We saw him every day, and we forgot that his heart was as white as his skin, for his tongue was the tongue of an Onondaga. We forgot that the white man has two tongues. It has not been long, my brothers,--not long enough for an Onondaga to forget. But the Big Buffalo is a mangy dog. He forgot the brothers of his lodge. He it was who took the Onondaga hunters and carried them away to be slaves. But the Manitou did not forget. He has put this Big Buffalo into our hands, that we may give him what should be given to the dog who forgets his master."

Again the Long Arrow paused.

"No; this is not the time to speak of corn. It is not the Senecas who call us, it is our brothers and their squaws and children. The Iroquois have been the greatest warriors of the world. They have driven the Hurons to the far northern forests; the Illinois to the Father of Waters, two moons' travel to the west; the Delawares to the waters of the south. They have told the white man to stay within his boundaries, and he has stayed. They have been kind to the white man; they have welcomed the holy Fathers into their villages. But now the Great Mountain makes slaves of the Onondagas. He brings his warriors across the Great Lake to punish the Senecas and destroy their lodges.

Shall the Long House of the Five Nations turn a white face to this Great Mountain? Shall the Long House call out in a shaking voice, 'See, Onontio, there are no heads on our arrows, no flints in our muskets! our hatchets are dull, our knives nicked and rusted! come, Onontio, and strike us, that we may know you are our master and our father'?"

The Long Arrow's voice had risen only slightly, but now it dropped; he went on, in a tone that was keen as a knife, but so low that those at the farther end of the house leaned forward and sat motionless.

"It has been said to-day to the Long House that we shall close our ears to the thunder of the Great Mountain, that we should think of our corn and our squaws, and leave the Senecas to fight their own battles.

But the Long House will not do this. The Long House will not give up the liberty that has been the pride of the Iroquois since first the rivers ran to the lake, and the moss grew on the trees, and the wind waved the tops of the long gra.s.s. The Great Mountain has come to take this liberty. He shall not have it. No; he shall lose his own--we will leave his bones to dry where the Seneca dogs run loose. The Big Buffalo shall die to tell the white man that the Iroquois never forgets; the Great Mountain shall die to tell the white man that the Iroquois is free."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE VOICE OF THE GREAT MOUNTAIN.

There was no lack of interest now in the council. The weariness left the maid's eyes as she followed the speeches that came in rapid succession. There was still the disagreement, the confusion of a dozen different views and demands; but the speech of the Long Arrow had pointed the discussion, it had set up an opinion to be either defended or attacked.

"Will the Big Throat speak now?" asked Mademoiselle, leaning close to Menard.

"I hardly think so. I don't know what will come next."

"When will you speak, M'sieu?"

"Not until word from the Big Throat. It would be a breach of courtesy."

One warrior, a member of the Beaver family, and probably a blood relative of the Beaver who had been killed in the fight of the morning, took advantage of the pause to speak savagely for war and vengeance. He counted those who had fallen since the sun rose, and appealed to their families to destroy the man who had killed them. He was not a chief, but his fiery speech aroused a murmur of approval from scattered groups of the spectators. This sympathy from those about him, with the anger which was steadily fed by his own hot words, gradually drove from his mind the observance of etiquette which was so large a part of an important council. Still speaking, he left his place, and walking slowly between two of the fires and across the circle, paused before Menard.

"The dog whom we fed and grew has turned against its masters, as the dogs of your own lodges, my brothers, will bite the hand that pats their heads. It has hung about outside of the Great Lodge to kill the hunter who sees no danger ahead. And now, when this dog is caught, and tied at your door, would not my brothers bring him to the end of all evil beasts?" As he finished, he made a gesture of bitter contempt and kicked Menard.

A shout went up, and voices clamoured, protesting, denouncing, exulting. The Captain's eyes flashed fire. It was not for a second that he hesitated. Weakness, to an Indian, is the last, the greatest fault. If he should take this insult, it would end forever not only his own chance of escape, with the maid and the priest, but all hope of safety for the Governor's column. He sprang to his feet before the Indian, whose arm was still stretched out in the gesture, and with two quick blows knocked him clear of his feet, and then kicked him into the fire.

A dozen hands dragged the warrior from the fire and stamped out a blaze that had started in the fringe of one legging. Every man in the house was on his feet, shouting and screaming. Menard stood with his hands at his side, smiling, with the same look of scorn he had worn in the morning when they led him to the torture. Father Claude drew closer to the maid, and the two sat without moving. Then above the uproar rose the voice of the Big Throat; and slowly the noise died away. The chief stepped to the centre of the circle, but before he could speak Menard had reached his side, and motioned to him to be silent.

"My brothers," he said, looking straight at the fallen warrior, who was scrambling to his feet,--"my brothers, the Big Buffalo is sorry that the Onondagas have among them a fool who thinks himself a warrior. The Big Buffalo is not here to fight fools. He is here to talk to chiefs. He is glad that the fool speaks only for himself and not for the brave men of the Long House." He walked deliberately back and resumed his seat by the maid.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Menard stood ... smiling with the same look of scorn he had worn ... when they led him to the torture."]

"Courage, Mademoiselle," he said close to her ear. "It is all right."

"What will they do, M'sieu?"

"Nothing. I have won. Wait--the Big Throat is speaking."

One by one the warriors fell back to their seats. Some were muttering, some were smiling; but all were subdued. The Big Throat's voice was calm and firm.

"The Big Buffalo has spoken well. The word of a fool is not the word of the Long House. The White Chief comes to give us the voice of Onontio, and we will listen."

He turned toward Menard, and then resumed his seat.

The Captain rose, and looked about the circle. The chiefs were motionless. Even the Long Arrow, now that his outburst was past, closed his lips over the stem of his pipe and gazed at the smoke.