“The hatchet often wounds those who use it unskilfully,” calmly returned the governor.  “The Saganaw is not blind.  The Ottawas, and the other tribes, find the war paint heavy on their skins.  They see that my young men are not to be conquered, and they have sent the great head of all the nations to sue for peace.”

In spite of the habitual reserve and self-possession of his race, the haughty warrior could not repress a movement of impatience at the bold and taunting language of his enemy, and for a moment there was a fire in his eye that told how willingly he would have washed away the insult in his blood.  The same low guttural exclamations that had previously escaped their lips, marked the sense entertained of the remark by his companions.

“My father is right,” pursued the chief, resuming his self-command; “the Ottawas, and the other tribes, ask for peace, but not because they are afraid of war.  When they strike the hatchet into the war post, they leave it there until their enemies ask them to take it out.”

“Why come they now, then, to ask for peace?” was the cool demand.

The warrior hesitated, evidently at a loss to give a reply that could reconcile the palpable contradiction of his words.

“The rich furs of our forests have become many,” he at length observed, “since we first took up the hatchet against the Saganaw; and every bullet we keep for our enemies is a loss to our trade.  We once exchanged furs with the children of our father of the pale flag.  They gave us, in return, guns, blankets, powder, ball, and all that the red man requires in the hunting season.  These are all expended; and my young men would deal with the Saganaw as they did with the French.”

“Good; the red skins would make peace; and although the arm of the Saganaw is strong, he will not turn a deaf ear to their desire.”

“All the strong holds of the Saganaw, except two, have fallen before the great chief of the Ottawas!” proudly returned the Indian, with a look of mingled scorn and defiance.  “They, too, thought themselves beyond the reach of our tomahawks; but they were deceived.  In less than a single moon nine of them have fallen, and the tents of my young warriors are darkened with their scalps; but this is past.  If the red skin asks for peace, it is because he is tired of seeing the blood of the Saganaw on his tomahawk.  Does my father hear?”

“We will listen to the great chief of the Ottawas, and hear what he has to say,” returned the governor, who, as well as the officers at his side, could with difficulty conceal their disgust and sorrow at the dreadful intelligence thus imparted of the fates of their companions.  “But peace,” he pursued with dignity, “can only be made in the council room, and under the sacred pledge of the calumet.  The great chief has a wampum belt on his shoulder, and a calumet in his hand.  His aged warriors, too, are at his side.  What says the Ottawa?  Will he enter?  If so, the gate of the Saganaw shall be open to him.”