They are of a gigantic race, and none of those at this conclave, except Atta-Culla-Culla, are less than six feet in height “without their moccasins.”  Squatted as they are gravely around the council-fire, they present a most picturesque appearance.  Among them are the Bread-Slave-Catcher, noted for his exploits in stealing negroes; the Tennassee Warrior, prince of the town of that name; Noon-Day, a wide-awake brave; Bloody Fellow, whose subsequent exploits will show the appropriateness of his name; Old Tassell, a wise and reasonably just old man, afterward Archimagus; and John Watts, a promising young half-breed, destined to achieve eminence in slaughtering white people.

As one after another of them rises to speak, the rest, with downcast eyes and cloudy visages, listen with silent gravity, only now and then expressing assent by a solitary “Ugh!”

There is strong, though suppressed, passion among them; but it is passion under the control of reason.  Whatever they decide to do will be done without haste, and after a careful weighing of all the consequences.  In the midst of their deliberations the rapid tread of a horse’s feet is heard coming up the long avenue.  The horseman halts before the council-house, and soon the buffalo-hide parts in twain, and a tall young warrior, decorated with eagles’ feathers and half clad in the highest style of Cherokee fashion, enters the door-way.  He stands silent, motionless, not moving a pace beyond the entrance, till Oconostota, raising his eyes and lifting his huge form into an erect posture, bids him speak and make known his errand.

The young brave explains that the chief of the pale-faces has come down the great war-path to an outlying town to see the head-men of the Ottari.  The warriors have detained him till they can know the will of their father the Archimagus.

The answer is brief:  “Let him come.  Oconostota will hear him.”

And now an hour goes by, during which these grave chiefs sit as silent and motionless as if keeping watch around a sepulchre.  At its close the tramp of a body of horsemen is heard, and soon Robertson, escorted by a score of painted warriors, enters the council-chamber.  Like the rest, the new-comers are of fine physical proportions; and, as the others rise to their feet and all form in a circle about him, Robertson, who stands only five feet nine inches and is not so robust as in later years, seems like a pygmy among giants.  Yet he is as cool, as collected, as apparently unconscious of danger, as if every one of those painted savages (when aroused, red devils) was his near friend or blood-relation.  The chiefs glance at him, and then at one another, with as much wonderment in their eyes as was ever seen in the eyes of a Cherokee.  They know he is but one man and they twelve hundred, and that by their law of retaliation his life is forfeit; and yet he stands there, a look of singular power on his face, as if not they but he were master of the situation.  They have seen physical bravery; but this is moral courage, which, when a man has a great purpose, lifts him above all personal considerations and makes his life no more to him than the bauble he wears upon his finger.