Time hung heavy on the hands of the savages.  It was winter, and the parties had all returned from the war trails.  The mutterings arose yet more loudly among families who had lost most heavily in these Western expeditions.  The shrewd mind of Teganisoris knew that some new thing must be planned.  He announced his decision at his own village, after the triumphal progress among the tribes had at length been concluded.

“Since they have sent us no presents,” said he, with that daring diplomacy which made him a leader in red statesmanship, “let those who stayed at home be given some prisoner in pay for those of their people who have been killed.  Moreover, let us offer to the Great Spirit some sacrifice in propitiation; since surely the Great Spirit is offended.”  Such was the conclusion of this head man of the Onondagos, and fateful enough it was to the prisoners.

The great gorge through which poured the vast waters of the Northern seas was a spot not always visited by those passing up the Great Lakes for the Western stations, nor down the Lakes to the settlements of the St. Lawrence.  Yet there was a trail which led around the great cataract, and the occasional coureurs de bois, or the passing friars, or the adventurous merchants of the lower settlements now and again left that trail, and came to look upon the tremendous scene of the great falling of the waters.  Here where the tumult ascended up to heaven, and where the white-blown wreaths of mist might indeed, even in an imagination better than that of a savage, have been construed into actual forms of spirits, the Indians had, from time immemorial, made their offerings to the genius of the cataract—­strips of rude cloth, the skin of the beaver and the otter, baskets woven of sweet grasses, and, after the advent of the white man, pieces of metal or strings of precious beads.  Such valued things as these were in rude adoration placed upon rocks or uplifted scaffolds near to the brink of the abyss.  This was the spot most commonly chosen by the medicine man in the pursuit of his incantations.  It was the church, the wild and savage cathedral of the red men.

Following now the command of their chieftain, the Iroquois left their stationary lodges and moved in a body, pitching a temporary camp at a spot not far from the Falls.  Here, in a great council lodge, the older men sat in deliberation for a full day and night.  The dull drum sounded continually, the council pipe went round, and the warriors besought the spirits to give them knowledge.  The savage hysteria, little by little, yet steadily, arose higher and higher, until at length it reached that point of frenzy where naught could suffice save some terrible, some tremendous thing.

Enforced spectators of these curious and ominous ceremonies, the prisoners looked on, wondering, imagining, hesitating and fearing.  “Monsieur,” said Pierre Noir, turning at last to Law, “it grieves me to speak, yet ’tis best for you to know the truth.  It is to be you or Monsieur Pembroke.  They will not have me.  They say that it must be one of you two great chiefs, for that you were brave, your hearts were strong, and that hence you would find favor as the adopted child of the Great Spirit who has been offended.”