The young man quietly turned the horrid trophy over several times in his hand, examining it attentively in every part.  Then tossing it back with contemptuous coolness to its owner, he replied,—­

“The eyes of my brother are weak with age.  He is not cunning, like a red skin.  The Ottawa has often seen the Saganaw in their fort, and he knows their chiefs have fine hair like women; but this is like the bristles of the fox.  My brother has not slain a great chief, but a common warrior.”

A flush of irrepressible and threatening anger passed over the features of the vast savage.

“Is it for a boy,” he fiercely asked, “whose eyes know not yet the colour of blood, to judge of the enemies that fall by the tomahawk of Wacousta? but a great warrior never boasts of actions that he does not achieve.  It is the son of the great chief of the Saganaw whom he has slain.  If the smooth face doubts it, and has courage to venture, even at night, within a hundred yards of the fort, he will see a Saganaw without a scalp; and he will know that Saganaw by his dress—­the dress,” he pursued, with a low emphatic laugh, “that Oucanasta, the sister of the smooth face, loved so much to look upon.”

Quicker than thought was the upspringing of the young Indian to his feet.  With a cheek glowing, an eye flashing, and his gleaming tomahawk whirling rapidly round his head, he cleared at a single bound the fire that separated him from his insulter.  The formidable man who had thus wantonly provoked the attack, was equally prompt in meeting it.  At the first movement of the youth, he too had leapt to his feet, and brandished the terrible weapon that served in the double capacity of pipe and hatchet.  A fierce yell escaped the lips of each, as they thus met in close and hostile collision, and the scene for the moment promised to be one of the most tragic character; but before either could find an assailable point on which to rest his formidable weapon, Ponteac himself had thrown his person between them, and in a voice of thunder commanded the instant abandonment of their purpose.  Exasperated even as they now mutually were, the influence of that authority, for which the great chief of the Ottawas was well known, was not without due effect on the combatants.  His anger was principally directed against the assailant, on whom the tones of his reproving voice produced a change the intimidation of his powerful opponent could never have effected.  The young chief dropped the point of his tomahawk, bowed his head in submission, and then resuming his seat, sat during the remainder of the night with his arms folded, and his head bent in silence over his chest.

“Our brother has done well,” said Ponteac, glancing approvingly at him who had exhibited the reeking trophy, and whom he evidently favoured.  “He is a great chief, and his words are truth.  We heard the report of his rifle, and we also heard the cry that told he had borne away the scalp of an enemy.  But we will think of this to-morrow.  Let us now commence our talk.”