III did not seem in the least annoyed. He
appeared rather to be delighted at this courtesy shown
his queen, and so the affair passed happily.

One humorous episode which happened during Brant's stay
in London caused quite a sensation. Through the good
graces of Earl Moira, he was invited to attend a masquerade
ball in Mayfair. It was to be a festive event, and people
of distinguished rank were expected to be present. Brant
did not go to any pains to deck himself out artfully for
the occasion, but was attired only in the costume of his
tribe. To change his appearance, he painted a portion of
his face, and arrived in this guise at the place of
entertainment. As he entered the gay ball-room, his lofty
plumage swayed grandly and a glittering tomahawk shone
from his girdle. The scene that met his eyes was resplendent
with life and beauty. Masked figures were flitting by,
clad in every imaginable garb. Here was a sleek-faced
friar, rotund and merry; there, a gypsy maid, or mild-eyed
shepherdess with her stave. Lonely hermits and whimsical
jesters, cackling witches, and members of a pilgrim
band--all thronged together with laugh or grimace, adding
their own peculiar lustre to the brilliant assembly. By
and by a Turk came strolling down the floor; he was a
diplomat of high degree, and two nymphs from the paradise
of Islam hovered near at hand. Suddenly the Turk caught
sight of the painted features of the sturdy redskin. He
stopped, and fixed the Indian with his gaze. Here, he
thought, was the chance for a bit of frolic. In a moment
he had lost his stately demeanour and lurched jocularly
towards the warrior. He reached for the Indian's face,
thinking it was screened with parchment. The next instant
he had tweaked the nose of the great chief of the Six
Nations. Above the confusing medley of sounds burst the
wild accents of the blood-freezing war-whoop. On the
instant Brant's tomahawk was forth from his girdle, and
was whirling about the head of the astonished offender.
Never had such a cry been heard within the halls of
fashion. Faces turned ashen pale and screams resounded
through the spacious mansion. Helter-skelter, in every
direction, fled the terrified masqueraders. The Moslem
thought that his last hour on earth had come. Then Brant's
arm fell; his tense features relaxed, and he had become
once more the genial 'Captain of the Mohawks.' According
to his own declaration, which may or may not have been
exactly true, he