As Isaac was led down a lane between two long lines of tepees the watching Indians did not make the demonstration that usually marked the capture of a paleface.  Some of the old squaws looked up from their work round the campfires and steaming kettles and grinned as the prisoner passed.  The braves who were sitting upon their blankets and smoking their long pipes, or lounging before the warm blazes maintained a stolid indifference; the dusky maidens smiled shyly, and the little Indian boys, with whom Isaac had always been a great favorite, manifested their joy by yelling and running after him.  One youngster grasped Isaac round the leg and held on until he was pulled away.

In the center of the village were several lodges connected with one another and larger and more imposing than the surrounding tepees.  These were the wigwams of the chief, and thither Isaac was conducted.  The guards led him to a large and circular apartment and left him there alone.  This room was the council-room.  It contained nothing but a low seat and a knotted war-club.

Isaac heard the rattle of beads and bear claws, and as he turned a tall and majestic Indian entered the room.  It was Tarhe, the chief of all the Wyandots.  Though Tarhe was over seventy, he walked erect; his calm face, dark as a bronze mask, showed no trace of his advanced age.  Every line and feature of his face had race in it; the high forehead, the square, protruding jaw, the stern mouth, the falcon eyes—­all denoted the pride and unbending will of the last of the Tarhes.

“The White Eagle is again in the power of Tarhe,” said the chief in his native tongue.  “Though he had the swiftness of the bounding deer or the flight of the eagle it would avail him not.  The wild geese as they fly northward are not swifter than the warriors of Tarhe.  Swifter than all is the vengeance of the Huron.  The young paleface has cost the lives of some great warriors.  What has he to say?”

“It was not my fault,” answered Isaac quickly.  “I was struck down from behind and had no chance to use a weapon.  I have never raised my hand against a Wyandot.  Crow will tell you that.  If my people and friends kill your braves I am not to blame.  Yet I have had good cause to shed Huron blood.  Your warriors have taken me from my home and have wounded me many times.”

“The White Chief speaks well.  Tarhe believes his words,” answered Tarhe in his sonorous voice.  “The Lenapee seek the death of the pale face.  Wingenund grieves for his son.  He is Tarhe’s friend.  Tarhe is old and wise and he is king here.  He can save the White Chief from Wingenund and Cornplanter.  Listen.  Tarhe is old and he has no son.  He will make you a great chief and give you lands and braves and honors.  He shall not ask you to raise your hand against your people, but help to bring peace.  Tarhe does not love this war.  He wants only justice.  He wants only to keep his lands, his horses, and his people.