ts.

"Tuscaroras!" said Magdalen Brant, quietly.

The Tuscarora sachems rose and passed out into the darkness, followed by
their suite of war-chiefs and attestants.

"Onondagas!"

All but two of the Onondaga delegation left the council-fire. Amid a
profound silence the Lenape followed, and in their wake stalked three
tall Mohicans.

Walter Butler sprang up from the base of the tree where he had been
sitting and pointed a shaking finger at Magdalen Brant:

"Damn you!" he shouted; "if you call on my Mohawks, I'll cut your
throat, you witch!"

Brant bounded to his feet and caught Butler's rigid, outstretched arm.

"Are you mad, to violate a council-fire?" he said, furiously. Magdalen
Brant looked calmly at Butler, then deliberately faced the sachems.

"Mohawks!" she called, steadily.

There was a silence; Butler's black eyes were almost starting from his
bloodless visage; the hag, Montour, clawed the air in helpless fury.

"Mohawks!" repeated the girl, quietly.

Slowly a single war-chief rose, and, casting aside his blanket, drew his
hatchet and struck the war-post. The girl eyed him contemptuously, then
turned again and called:

"Senecas!"

A Seneca chief, painted like death, strode to the post and struck it
with his hatchet.

"Cayuga!" called the girl, steadily.

A Cayuga chief sprang at the post and struck it twice.

Roars of applause shook the silence; then a masked figure leaped towards
the central fire, shouting: "The False-Faces' feast! Ho! Hoh! Ho-ooh!"

In a moment the circle was a scene of terrific excesses. Masked figures
pelted each other with live coals from the fires; dancing, shrieking,
yelping demons leaped about whirling their blazing torches; witch-drums
boomed; chant after chant was raised as new dancers plunged into the
delirious throng, whirling the carcasses of white dogs, painted with
blue and yellow stripes. The nauseating stench of burned roast meat
filled the air, as the False-Faces brought quarters of venison and
baskets of fish into the circle and dumped them on the coals.

Faster and more furious grew the dance of the False-Faces. The flying
coals flew in every direction, streaming like shooting-stars across the
fringing darkness. A grotesque masker, wearing the head-dress of a bull,
hurled his torch into the air; the flaming brand lodged in the feathery
top of a pine, the foliage caught fire, and with a crackling rush a vast
whirlwind of flame and smoke streamed skyward