The Grey-Feather shouted: 

“Lying and degraded priest!  Mowawak Cannibal of a Sinako Cat!  It is Atensi herself who burns with Iuskeha in Biskoonah; and the sacrilegious fires lick your altars!”

The Erie laughed horribly: 

“Where is your fool of a stripling called Loskiel?  Is he there with you?  Or did my hatchet fetch him such a clip that he died of fright and a bullet in his belly?”

“He is unharmed,” replied the Mohican, tauntingly.  “A squaw shoots better than a Cat!”

“A lie!  I saw my rifle blow a hole in his body!”

“Hatchet and rifle failed.  The Ensign, Loskiel, laughed, asking what forest-flies were buzzing at his ear.  Loskiel spits on Cats, and brushes their flying hatchets from his ears as others brush mosquitos!”

“Let him speak, then, to prove it!” shouted the Erie, incredulously.

But I remained silent.

Then the Erie’s ferocious laugh rang out from the cliff.

“Now, you Mohican slave and you Oneida dogs, you shall know the power of Amochol.  For what was done to Loskiel and to the Praying Mole, will be done to you all on the last day of this month, when the Dream Feast is held at Catharines-town!  You shall die.  And others shall die—­ not as you, but on the red altar of the Great Sachem Amochol!  Strangled, disemboweled, sacrificed to clothe Atensi!”

The Grey-Feather, unable any longer to retain his self-control, was getting to his feet, staring wildly up at the cliff; but the Mohican drew him back into his form and held him there with powerful grip.

“Listen,” he hissed, “to what this warlock blabbs.”

The Erie laughed, evidently awaiting a retort.  None came, and he laughed again triumphantly.

“Amochol’s arm is long, O you Oneida dogs who howl outside the Long House gates!  Amochol’s eyes are like the white-crested eagle’s eyes, seeing everything, and his ears are like the red buck’s ears, so that nothing stirs unheard by him.

“Phantoms arise and walk at night; Amochol sees.  Under earth and water, demons are breathing; Amochol hears.  Then we Eries listen, too, and make the altar fires burn hotter.  For the ghosts of the night and the demons that stir must be fed.”

He waited again, doubtless expecting some exclamation of protest against his monstrous profession.  After a moment he went on: 

“Spectres and demons must be fed—­ but not on the foul flesh of dogs like you!  We cut your throats to feed the Flying Heads.”

He paused; and as no reply was forthcoming, the sorcerer laughed scornfully.

“Your blood becomes water!  You cringe at the power of Amochol.  But the red altar is not for you.  Listen, dogs!  Had I not found it necessary to slay your stripling, Loskiel, he had been burned and strangled an that altar!...  And there is another at Otsego who shall die strangled on the altar of Amochol—­ the maiden called Lois!  Long have we followed her.  Long is the arm of the Red Priest—­ when his White Sorceress dreams for him!