“The Oneidas are women!” yelled the hag.

Magdalen Brant made a curiously graceful gesture, as though throwing something to the ground from her empty hand.  And, as all looked, something did strike the ground—­something that coiled and hissed and rattled—­a snake, crouched in the form of a letter S; and the lynx turned its head, snarling, every hair erect.

“Mohawks and Cayugas!” she cried; “are you to judge the Oneidas?—­you who dare not take this rattlesnake in your hands?”

There was no reply.  She smiled and lifted the snake.  It coiled up in her palm, rattling and lifting its terrible head to the level of her eyes.  The lynx growled.

“Quiet!” she said, soothingly.  “The snake has gone, O Tahagoos, my friend.  Behold, my hand is empty; Sa-kwe-en-ta, the Fanged One has gone.”

It was true.  There was nothing where, an instant before, I myself had seen the dread thing, crest swaying on a level with her eyes.

“Will you be swept away by this young witch’s magic?” shrieked Catrine Montour.

“Oneidas!” cried Magdalen Brant, “the way is cleared!  Hiro [I have spoken]!”

Then the sachems of the Oneida stood up, wrapping themselves in their blankets, and moved silently away, filing into the forest, followed by the war-chiefs and those who had accompanied the Oneida delegation as attestants.

“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!”