the week the council began; and the scene of the great drama was a field near the village, the background of forest trees.  Few plays on the world’s stage have held such suspense, few battles such excitement for those who watched.  Here was the spectacle of one strong man’s brain pitted against the combined craft of the wilderness.  In the midst of a stretch of waving grass was a table, and a young man of six-and-twenty sat there alone.  Around him were ringed the gathered tribes, each chief in the order of his importance squatted in the inner circle, their blankets making patches of bright color against the green.  Behind the tribes was the little group of hunting shirts, the men leaning on the barrels of their long rifles, indolent but watchful.  Here and there a gay uniform of a Spanish or Creole officer, and behind these all the population of the village that dared to show itself.

The ceremonies began with the kindling of the council fire,—­a rite handed down through unknown centuries of Indian usage.  By it nations had been made and unmade, broad lands passed, even as they now might pass.  The yellow of its crackling flames was shamed by the summer sun, and the black smoke of it was wafted by the south wind over the forest.  Then for three days the chiefs spoke, and a man listened, unmoved.  The sound of these orations, wild and fearful to my boyish ear, comes back to me now.  Yet there was a cadence in it, a music of notes now falling, now rising to a passion and intensity that thrilled us.

Bad birds flying through the land (the British agents) had besought them to take up the bloody hatchet.  They had sinned.  They had listened to the lies which the bad birds had told of the Big Knives, they had taken their presents.  But now the Great Spirit in His wisdom had brought themselves and the Chief of the Big Knives together.  Therefore (suiting the action to the word) they stamped on the bloody belt, and rent in pieces the emblems of the White King across the water.  So said the interpreters, as the chiefs one after another tore the miniature British flags which had been given them into bits.  On the evening of the third day the White Chief rose in his chair, gazing haughtily about him.  There was a deep silence.

“Tell your chiefs,” he said, “tell your chiefs that to-morrow I will give them an answer.  And upon the manner in which they receive that answer depends the fate of your nations.  Good night.”

They rose and, thronging around him, sought to take his hand.  But Clark turned from them.

“Peace is not yet come,” he said sternly.  “It is time to take the hand when the heart is given with it.”

A feathered headsman of one of the tribes gave back with dignity and spoke.

“It is well said by the Great Chief of the Pale Faces,” he answered; “these in truth are not the words of a man with a double tongue.”

So they sought their quarters for the night, and suspense hung breathless over the village.