himself unexpectedly opposed by one of those whom he had formerly found so difficult to persuade into his own dire plans!  Had that one been a chief of any renown, the circumstances would have been more tolerable; but here was a man presuming to raise his voice against him, who, so far as he knew anything of his past career, had not a single claim to open his mouth in such a council.  With a volcano raging within, that such a state of things would be likely to kindle in the breast of a savage who had been for years a successful and nearly unopposed leader, the mysterious chief rose to reply.

“My brother says he is a weasel,” observed Peter, looking round at the circle of interested and grave countenances by which he was surrounded.  “That is a very small animal.  It creeps through very small holes, but not to do good.  It is good for nothing.  When it goes through a small hole, it is not to do the Injins a service, but for its own purposes.  I do not like weasels.

“My brother is not afraid of a bee-hunter.  Can he tell us what a bee whispers?  If he can, I wish he would tell us.  Let him show our young men where there is more honey—­where they can find bear’s meat for another feast—­where they can find warriors hid in the woods.

“My brother says the bee-hunter has no squaw.  How does he know this?  Has he lived in the lodge with them—­paddled in the same canoe—­eat of the same venison?  A weasel is very small.  It might steal into the bee-hunter’s lodge, and see what is there, what is doing, what is eaten, who is his squaw, and who is not—­has this weasel ever done so?  I never saw him there.

“Brothers, the Great Spirit has his own way of doing things.  He does not stop to listen to weasels.  He knows there are such animals—­ there are snakes, and toads, and skunks.  The Great Spirit knows them all, but he does not mind them.  He is wise, and hearkens only to his own mind.  So should it be with a council of great chiefs.  It should listen to its own mind.  That is wisdom.  To listen to the mind of a weasel is folly.

“Brothers, you have been told that this weasel does not know the tribe of which I am born.  Why should you know it?  Injins once were foolish.  While the pale-faces were getting one hunting-ground after another from them, they dug up the hatchet against their own friends.  They took each other’s scalps.  Injin hated Injin—­tribe hated tribe.  I am of no tribe, and no one can hate me for my people.  You see my skin.  It is red.  That is enough.  I scalp, and smoke, and talk, and go on weary paths for all Injins, and not for any tribe.  I am without a tribe.  Some call me the Tribeless.  It is better to bear that name, than to be called a weasel.  I have done.”

Peter had so much success by this argumentum ad hominem, that most present fancied that the weasel would creep through some hole, and disappear.  Not so, however, with Ungque.  He was a demagogue, after an Indian fashion; and this is a class of men that ever “make capital” of abuses, as we Americans say, in our money-getting habits.  Instead of being frightened off the ground, he arose to answer as promptly as if a practised debater, though with an air of humility so profound, that no one could take offence at his presumption.