So, for a full minute in utter silence, they stared at each other; then Amochol said between his teeth: 

“Have a care that you read truly what my people dream!”

“Shall I lie?” she asked in even tones.  And, quivering with impotent rage and superstition, the Red Priest found no word to answer.

“O Amochol,” she said, “let the armoured executioner loose his shaft.  It is poisoned.  Never since the Cat-People were overthrown has a poisoned arrow been used within the Long House.  Never since the Atotarho covered his face from Hiawatha—­ never since the snakes were combed from his hair—­ has a Priest of the Long House dared to doubt the Prophetess of the Seneca nation.  Doubt—­ and die!”

Amochol’s face was like pale brown marble; twice he half turned toward the executioner, but gave no signal.  Finally, he laid his hand flat on the altar; the executioner unbent his bow and the arrow drooped from the painted haft and dangled there, its hammered iron war-head glinting in the firelight.

Then the Prophetess turned and stood looking out over the throng through the thick, aromatic smoke from the birch-fire, and presently her clear voice rang through the deathly silence: 

“O People of the Evening Sky!  Far on the Chemung lie many dead men.  I see them lying there in green coats and in red, in feathers and in paint!  Through forests, through mountains, through darkness, have my eyes beheld this thing.  There is a new thunder in the hills, and red fire flowers high in the pines, and a hail falls, driving earthward in iron drops that slay all living things.

“New clouds hang low along the river; and they are not of the water mist that comes at twilight and ascends with the sun.  Nor is this new thunder in the hills the voice of the Eight White Plumed Ones; nor is the boiling of the waters the stirring of the Serpent Bride.

“Red run the riffles, yet the sun is high; and those who would cross at the ford have laid them down to dam the waters with their bodies.

“And I see fires along the flats; I see flames everywhere, towns on fire, corn burning, hay kindling to ashes under a white ocean of smoke—­ the Three Sisters scorched, trampled, and defiled!” She lifted one arm; her spellbound audience never stirred.

“Listen!” she cried, “I hear the crashing of many feet in northward flight!  I hear horses galloping, and the rattle of swords.  Many who run are stumbling, falling, lying still and crushed and wet with blood.  I, Sorceress of the Senecas, see and hear these things; and as I see and hear, so must I speak my warning to you all!”

She whirled on Amochol, flinging back her hair.  Her skin was as white us my own!

With a stifled cry Lois sprang to her feet; but I caught her and held her fast.

“Good God!” I whispered to the Sagamore.  “Where is Boyd?”

The executioner had risen, and was bending his bow; the Sorceress turned deathly pale but her blue eyes flashed, never swerving from the cruel stare of Amochol.