you then, all of you, help to
dig the great hill under which the hatchet is going to be buried. Then
once more our rivers will not be red, and will look more like water. The
sun will not shine red, but will look as the sun should look. The sky
will again be blue. Our women and our children will no longer be afraid,
and you Iroquois can go to sleep in your houses and not dread the arms
of the French. Brothers, I have spoken. Peace is good."

Teganisoris replied in the same strain as that chosen by Joncaire,
assuring him that he was his brother; that his heart went out to him;
that the Iroquois loved the French; and that if they had gone to war
with them, it was but because the young men of Corlaer had closed their
eyes so that they could not see the truth. "As to these prisoners," said
he, "take them with you. We do not want them with us, for we fear they
may bring us harm. Our medicine man counseled us to offer up one of
these prisoners as a sacrifice to the Great Spirit. We did so. Now our
medicine man has a bad dream. He says that the white men are going to
come and tear down our houses and trample our fields. When the time
comes for the peace, the Iroquois will be at the Mountain. Brother, we
will bury the hatchet, and bury it so deep that henceforth none may ever
again dig it up."

"It is well," said Joncaire, abruptly. "My brothers are wise. Now let
the council end, for my path is long and I must travel back to Onontio
at once."

Joncaire knew well enough the fickle nature of these savages, who might
upon the morrow demand another council and perhaps arrive at different
conclusions. Hearing there were no white prisoners in the villages
farther to the west, he resolved to set forth at once upon the return
with those now at hand. Hurrying, therefore, as soon as might be, to
their leader, he urged him to make ready forthwith for the journey back
to the St. Lawrence.

"Unless I much mistake, Monsieur," said he to Law, "you are that same
gentleman who so set all Quebec by the ears last winter. My faith! The
regiment Carignan had cause to rejoice when you left for up river, even
though you took with you half the ready coin of the settlement. Yet come
you once more to meet the gentlemen of France, and I doubt not they
will be glad as ever to stake you high, as may be in this
poverty-stricken region. You have been far to the westward, I doubt not.
You were, perhaps, made prisoner somewhere below the Straits."

"Far b