at this exhibition of the propensities of an American savage.  Civilized life has had, and still has, very many customs, little less excusable than that of scalping.  Without dragging into the account the thousand and one sins that disgrace and deform society, it will be sufficient to look into the single interest of civilized warfare, in order to make out our case.  In the first place, the noblest strategy of the art is, to put the greatest possible force on the least of the enemy, and to slay the weaker party by the mere power of numbers.  Then, every engine that ingenuity can invent, is drawn into the conflict; and rockets, revolvers, shells, and all other infernal devices, are resorted to, in order to get the better of an enemy who is not provided with such available means of destruction.  And after the battle is over, each side commonly claims the victory; sometimes, because a partial success has been obtained in a small portion of the field; sometimes, because half a dozen horses have run away with a gun, carrying it into the hostile ranks; and, again, because a bit of rag has fallen from the hands of a dead man, and been picked up by one of the opposing side.  How often has it happened that a belligerent, well practised in his art, has kept his own colors out of the affair, and then boasted that they were not lost!  Now, an Indian practises no such shameless expedients.  His point of honor is not a bit of rag, but a bit of his skin.  He shaves his head because the hair encumbers him; but he chivalrously leaves a scalp-lock, by the aid of which his conquerors can the more easily carry away the coveted trophy.  The thought of cheating in such a matter never occurs to his unsophisticated mind; and as for leaving his “colors” in barracks, while he goes in the field himself, he would disdain it—­nay, cannot practise it; for the obvious reason that his head would have to be left with them.

Thus it was with Pigeonswing.  He had made his toilet for the war-path, and was fierce in his paint, but honest and fair-dealing in other particulars.  If he could terrify his enemies by looking like a skeleton, or a demon, it was well; his enemy would terrify him, if possible, by similar means.  But neither would dream, or did dream, of curtailing, by a single hair, that which might be termed the flag-staff of his scalp.  If the enemy could seize it, he was welcome to the prize; but if he could seize that of the enemy, no scruples on the score of refinement, or delicacy, would be apt to interfere with his movements.  It was in this spirit, then, that Pigeonswing came to the canoe, where le Bourdon was holding a little private discourse with Margery, and gave utterance to what was passing in his mind.

“Good time, now, get more scalps, Bourdon,” said the Chippewa, in his clipping, sententious English.

“It is a good time, too, to keep our own, Chippewa,” was the answer.  “Your scalp-lock is too long, to be put before Pottawattamie eyes without good looking after it.”