Stirred beyond control, a fierce shout burst from the nine Mohawk sachems.  It was the first time within the memory of the council that any of its members had given evidence of feeling, while a question lay before it, but their cry touched a common chord of sympathy.  Applause swept the crowd, and then, deep silence coming again, the orator continued, his fervor and power increasing as he knew now that all the nations of the Hodenosaunee were with him.

He enlarged upon his theme.  He showed to them what a victorious France would do.  If Quebec prevailed, the fair promises the priest and the chevalier had made to the Hodenosaunee would be forgotten.  Even as the Mohawks had lost Quebec and other villages they would lose now their castles, the Upper, the Lower and the Middle, the Cayugas and the Oneidas would be crushed, and with them their new brethren the Tuscaroras.  The French would burst with fire and sword into the sacred vale of Onondaga itself, they would cut down the council grove and burn the Long House, then their armies would go forth to destroy the Senecas, the Keepers of the Western Gate.

The thousands, swayed by uncontrollable emotion, sprang to their feet and a tremendous shout burst from them all.  St. Luc, seeing the Hodenosaunee slipping from his hands and from those of France, leaped up, unable to contain himself, and cried: 

“Do not listen to him!  Do not listen to him!  What he says cannot come to pass!”

The people were in a turmoil, and the council strove in vain for order, but the young speaker raised his hand and silence came again.

“The Chevalier de St. Luc and Father Drouillard, who have spoken to you in behalf of France, are brave and good men,” he said, “but they cannot control the acts of their country.  They tell you what I say cannot come to pass, but I tell you that it can come to pass, and what is more it has come to pass.  Behold!”

He took from beneath his deerskin tunic a tomahawk, large and keen, and held it up.  Its shining blade was stained red with the blood of a human being.  The silence was now so intense that it became heavy and oppressive.  Everyone in the crowd expected something startling to follow, and they were right.

He swung the tomahawk about in a circle that all might see it, and the blood upon its blade.  His feeling for the dramatic was strong upon him, and he knew that the right moment had come.

“Do you know whose tomahawk this is?” he cried.

The crowd was silent and waiting.

“It is the tomahawk of Tandakora, the Ojibway, the friend and ally of the French.”

A fierce shout like a peal of thunder from the crowd, and then the same intense, waiting silence.

“Do you know whose blood stains the tomahawk of Tandakora, the Ojibway, the friend and ally of the French?”

A deep breath from the crowd.