“My father has understood my sign,” said the haughty chief.  “The warriors of a dozen tribes are far behind the path the Ottawa has just travelled; but when the red skin comes unarmed, the hand of the Saganaw is tied behind his back.”

“The strong hold of the Saganaw is his safeguard,” replied the governor, adopting the language of the Indian.  “When the enemies of his great father come in strength, he knows how to disperse them; but when a warrior throws himself unarmed into his power, he respects his confidence, and his arms hang rusting at his side.”

“The talk of my father is big,” replied the warrior, with a scornful expression that seemed to doubt the fact of so much indifference as to himself; “but when it is a great chief who directs the nations, and that chief his sworn enemy, the temptation to the Saganaw may be strong.”

“The Saganaw is without fear,” emphatically rejoined the governor; “he is strong in his own honour; and he would rather die under the tomahawk of the red skin, than procure a peace by an act of treachery.”

The Indian paused; cold, calm looks of intelligence passed between him and his followers, and a few indistinct and guttural sentences were exchanged among themselves.

“But our father asks not why our mocassins have brushed the dew from off the common,” resumed the chief; “and yet it is long since the Saganaw and the red skin have spoken to each other, except through the war whoop.  My father must wonder to see the great chief of the Ottawas without the hatchet in his hand.”

“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.”