The speech was listened to in silence, and some of the chiefs were disposed to grant Girty’s request.  But others urged the flagrant misdemeanors of Kenton; that he had not only stolen their horses, but had flashed his gun at one of their young men; that it was in vain to suppose that so bad a man could ever become an Indian at heart, like their brother Girty; that the Kentuckians were all alike, very bad people, and ought to be killed as fast as they were taken; and, finally, they observed that many of their people had come from a distance, solely to assist at the torture of the prisoner; and pathetically painted the disappointment and chagrin, with which they would hear that all their trouble had been for nothing.

Girty continued to urge his request, however, with great earnestness, and the debate was carried on for an hour and a half, with much energy and heat.  The feelings of Kenton during this suspense may be imagined.

At length the warclub was produced, and the final vote was taken.  It was in favor of the prisoner’s reprieve.  Having thus succeeded in his benevolent purpose, Girty lost no time in attending to the comfort of his friend.  He led him into his own wigwam, and, from his own store, gave him a pair of moccasins and leggins, a breechcloth, a hat, a coat, a handkerchief for his neck, and another for his head.

For the space of three weeks, Kenton lived in tranquility, treated with much kindness by Girty and the chiefs.  But, at the end of that time, as he was one day with Girty and an Indian named Redpole, another Indian came from the village toward them, uttering repeatedly a whoop of peculiar intonation.  Girty instantly told Kenton it was the distress-halloo, and that they must all go instantly to the council-house.  Kenton’s heart fluttered at the intelligence, for he dreaded all whoops, and heartily hated all council-houses, firmly believing that neither boded him any good.  Nothing, however, could be done, to avoid whatever fate awaited him, and he sadly accompanied Girty and Redpole back to the village.

On entering the council-house, Kenton perceived from the ominous scowls of the chiefs, that they meant no tenderness toward him.  Girty and Redpole were cordially received, but when poor Kenton offered his hand, it was rejected by six Indians successively, after which, sinking into despondence, he turned away, and stood apart.

The debate commenced.  Kenton looked eagerly toward Girty, as his last and only hope.  His friend seemed anxious and distressed.  The chiefs from a distance rose one after another, and spoke in a firm and indignant tone, often looking sternly at Kenton.  Girty did not desert him, but his eloquence was wasted.  After a warm discussion, he turned to Kenton and said, “Well, my friend, you must die!”