r captives.
Radisson only was still bound. A gust of wind from the opening lodge
door cleared the smoke for an instant and there entered Radisson's
Indian father, clad in the regalia of a mighty chief. Tomahawk and
calumet and medicine-bag were in his hands. He took his place in the
circle of councillors. Judgment was to be given on the remaining
prisoners.

After passing the Council Pipe from hand to hand in solemn silence, the
sachems prepared to give their views. One arose, and offering the
smoke of incense to the four winds of heaven to invoke witness to the
justice of the trial, gave his opinion on the matter of life or death.
Each of the chiefs in succession spoke. Without any warning whatever,
one chief rose and summarily tomahawked three of the captives. That
had been the sentence. The rest were driven, like sheep for the
shambles, to life-long slavery.

Radisson was left last. His case was important. He had sanctioned the
murder of three Mohawks. Not for a moment since he was recaptured had
they dared to untie the hands of so dangerous a prisoner. Amid deathly
silence, the Iroquois father stood up. Flinging down medicine-bag, fur
robe, wampum belts, and tomahawk, he pointed to the nineteen scars upon
his side, each of which signified an enemy slain by his own hand. Then
the old Mohawk broke into one of those impassioned rhapsodies of
eloquence which delighted the savage nature, calling back to each of
the warriors recollection of victories for the Iroquois. His eyes took
fire from memory of heroic battle. The councillors shook off their
imperturbable gravity and shouted "Ho, ho!" Each man of them had a
memory of his part in those past glories. And as they applauded, there
glided into the wigwam the mother, singing some battle-song of valor,
dancing and gesticulating round and round the lodge in dizzy,
serpentine circlings, that illustrated in pantomime those battles of
long ago. Gliding ghostily from the camp-fire to the outer dark, she
suddenly stopped, stood erect, advanced a step, and with all her might
threw one belt of priceless wampum at the councillors' feet, one
necklace over the prisoner's head.

Before the applause could cease or the councillors' ardor cool, the
adopted brother sprang up, hatchet in hand, and sang of other
victories. Then, with a delicacy of etiquette which white pleaders do
not always observe, father and son withdrew from the Council Lodge to
let the jury deli