bold
and taunting language of his enemy, and for a moment there was a fire
in his eye that told how willingly he would have washed away the insult
in his blood. The same low guttural exclamations that had previously
escaped their lips, marked the sense entertained of the remark by his
companions.

"My father is right," pursued the chief, resuming his self-command;
"the Ottawas, and the other tribes, ask for peace, but not because they
are afraid of war. When they strike the hatchet into the war post, they
leave it there until their enemies ask them to take it out."

"Why come they now, then, to ask for peace?" was the cool demand.

The warrior hesitated, evidently at a loss to give a reply that could
reconcile the palpable contradiction of his words.

"The rich furs of our forests have become many," he at length observed,
"since we first took up the hatchet against the Saganaw; and every
bullet we keep for our enemies is a loss to our trade. We once
exchanged furs with the children of our father of the pale flag. They
gave us, in return, guns, blankets, powder, ball, and all that the red
man requires in the hunting season. These are all expended; and my
young men would deal with the Saganaw as they did with the French."

"Good; the red skins would make peace; and although the arm of the
Saganaw is strong, he will not turn a deaf ear to their desire."

"All the strong holds of the Saganaw, except two, have fallen before
the great chief of the Ottawas!" proudly returned the Indian, with a
look of mingled scorn and defiance. "They, too, thought themselves
beyond the reach of our tomahawks; but they were deceived. In less than
a single moon nine of them have fallen, and the tents of my young
warriors are darkened with their scalps; but this is past. If the red
skin asks for peace, it is because he is tired of seeing the blood of
the Saganaw on his tomahawk. Does my father hear?"

"We will listen to the great chief of the Ottawas, and hear what he has
to say," returned the governor, who, as well as the officers at his
side, could with difficulty conceal their disgust and sorrow at the
dreadful intelligence thus imparted of the fates of their companions.
"But peace," he pursued with dignity, "can only be made in the council
room, and under the sacred pledge of the calumet. The great chief has a
wampum belt on his shoulder, and a calumet in his hand. His aged
warriors, too, are at his side. What says the Ottawa? Will h