She chanted the glory of the Long House; of the nations that drove the Eries, the Hurons, the Algonquins; of the nation that purged the earth of the Stonish Giants; of the nation that fought the dreadful battle of the Flying Heads.  She sang the triumph of the confederacy, the bonds that linked the Elder Brothers and Elder Sons with the Esaurora, whose tongue was the sign of council unity.

And the circle of savages began to sway in rhythm to her chanting, answering back, calling their challenge from clan to clan; until, suddenly, the Senecas sprang to their feet and drove their hatchets into the war-post, challenging the Lenape with their own battle-cry: 

“Yoagh!  Yoagh!  Ha-ha!  Hagh!  Yoagh!”

Then the Mohawks raised their war-yelp and struck the post; and the Cayugas answered with a terrible cry, striking the post, and calling out for the Next Youngest Son—­meaning the Tuscaroras—­to draw their hatchets.

“Have the Seminoles made women of you?” screamed Catrine Montour, menacing the sachems of the Tuscaroras with clinched fists.

“Let the Lenape tell you of women!” retorted a Tuscarora sachem, calmly.

At this opening of an old wound the Oneidas called on the Lenape to answer; but the Lenape sat sullen and silent, with flashing eyes fixed on the Mohawks.

Then Catrine Montour, lashing herself into a fury, screamed for vengeance on the people who had broken the chain-belt with the Long House.  Raving and frothing, she burst into a torrent of prophecy, which silenced every tongue and held every Indian fascinated.

“Look!” whispered Mount.  “The Oneidas are drawing their hatchets!  The Tuscaroras will follow!  The Iroquois will declare for war!”

Suddenly the False-Faces raised a ringing shout: 

“Kree!  Ha-ha!  Kre-e!”

And a hideous creature in yellow advanced, rattling his yellow mask.

Catrine Montour, slavering and gasping, leaned against the painted war-post.  Into the fire-ring came dancing a dozen girls, all strung with brilliant wampum, their bodies and limbs painted vermilion, sleeveless robes of wild iris hanging to their knees.  With a shout they chanted: 

“O False-Faces, prepare to do honor to the truth!  She who Dreams has come from her three sisters—­the Woman of the Thunder-cloud, the Woman of the Sounding Footsteps, the Woman of the Murmuring Skies!”

And, joining hands, they cried, sweetly:  “Come, O Little Rosebud Woman!—­Ke-neance-e-qua!  O-gin-e-o-qua!—­Woman of the Rose!”

And all together the False-Faces cried:  “Welcome to Ta-lu-la, the leaping waters!  Here is I-e-nia, the wanderer’s rest!  Welcome, O Woman of the Rose!”

Then the grotesque throng of the False-Faces parted right and left; a lynx, its green eyes glowing, paced out into the firelight; and behind the tawny tree-cat came slowly a single figure—­a young girl, bare of breast and arm; belted at the hips with silver, from which hung a straight breadth of doeskin to the instep of her bare feet.  Her dark hair, parted, fell in two heavy braids to her knees; her lips were tinted with scarlet; her small ear-lobes and finger-tips were stained a faint rose-color.