One humorous episode which happened during Brant’s stay in London caused quite a sensation.  Through the good graces of Earl Moira, he was invited to attend a masquerade ball in Mayfair.  It was to be a festive event, and people of distinguished rank were expected to be present.  Brant did not go to any pains to deck himself out artfully for the occasion, but was attired only in the costume of his tribe.  To change his appearance, he painted a portion of his face, and arrived in this guise at the place of entertainment.  As he entered the gay ball-room, his lofty plumage swayed grandly and a glittering tomahawk shone from his girdle.  The scene that met his eyes was resplendent with life and beauty.  Masked figures were flitting by, clad in every imaginable garb.  Here was a sleek-faced friar, rotund and merry; there, a gypsy maid, or mild-eyed shepherdess with her stave.  Lonely hermits and whimsical jesters, cackling witches, and members of a pilgrim band—­all thronged together with laugh or grimace, adding their own peculiar lustre to the brilliant assembly.  By and by a Turk came strolling down the floor; he was a diplomat of high degree, and two nymphs from the paradise of Islam hovered near at hand.  Suddenly the Turk caught sight of the painted features of the sturdy redskin.  He stopped, and fixed the Indian with his gaze.  Here, he thought, was the chance for a bit of frolic.  In a moment he had lost his stately demeanour and lurched jocularly towards the warrior.  He reached for the Indian’s face, thinking it was screened with parchment.  The next instant he had tweaked the nose of the great chief of the Six Nations.  Above the confusing medley of sounds burst the wild accents of the blood-freezing war-whoop.  On the instant Brant’s tomahawk was forth from his girdle, and was whirling about the head of the astonished offender.  Never had such a cry been heard within the halls of fashion.  Faces turned ashen pale and screams resounded through the spacious mansion.  Helter-skelter, in every direction, fled the terrified masqueraders.  The Moslem thought that his last hour on earth had come.  Then Brant’s arm fell; his tense features relaxed, and he had become once more the genial ‘Captain of the Mohawks.’  According to his own declaration, which may or may not have been exactly true, he only intended a playful contribution to the pleasures of the evening.  The Turk was calmed, and the frightened company came slowly streaming back.  Everything was explained and Brant became a greater hero than ever before.  Yet it is hardly likely that the pompous follower of Islam ever forgot the lively scene which his rashness had produced.