Old Chief Single-Pine welcomed the missionary and Wampum graciously, but his people scowled and looked menacingly at the sight of “The Black Coat,” then continued their dancing.  The great Delaware idol was there in all its hideousness, life size, in the form of a woman, and carved from one solid block of wood, then painted and stained the Indian copper color.  It stood on a slight elevation in the centre of the big log “church,” grotesque and repulsive as an image could well be made.  Wampum hated the thing, and found it difficult not to hate these people who worshipped it.  His own ancestors had been pagans, but never heathen.  They had worshipped a living God, not a wooden one, and the boy turned in sadness, and some horror, from the spectacle of these idolatrous Delawares.  Then his eyes lighted with pleasure, for there, near the door, stood Fire-Flower and Fish-Carrier.  True, they were not now telling their boastful but harmless tales of mighty hunting and prowess, but their friendly faces still looked laughter-loving and genial, and Wampum moved quickly towards them.  “I did not know you ever came here,” he said.

“Not often,” said Fire-Flower.  “But you said you were to bring the missionary, so we came.”

Something in his voice gave Wampum a hint that perhaps the loyal old hunters expected trouble, and so had come in case they were needed.

“Thank you,” was all the boy replied, but they knew he understood.

Meanwhile, Mr. Nelson was talking with Single-Pine, who, exhausted with dancing, was allowing himself a brief rest and smoke.  “My friend,” began the missionary, “do you really believe in the power of that god of wood?”

The old chief glanced about cautiously, then, lowering his voice, said: 

“I am tired, oh, Black Coat, of this thing!  I would come to the Christian’s God if I could, but my people will not let me.”

Mr. Nelson grasped the dark fingers resting near his own.  “Chief Single-Pine,” he said excitedly, “will you yourself give me leave to do away with this idol?  Will you promise me that if I cut it down you will make no outcry—­that you will not defend it; that you will not urge your people to rise against me; that you will sit silently, wordlessly; that you will take my part?”

For a moment the old Indian wavered, hesitated, then said desperately, “I promise.”

The missionary arose, removed his hat, and lifting his white face to heaven, prayed aloud, “God help me, make me strong and fearless to do this thing.”  But at his side was Wampum, his clinging brown fingers clutching the black-coated arm.  He had overheard all the conversation, and his young face took on grayish shadows and lines of anxiety as he said, “No, no, Mr. Nelson, not you!  They may kill you.  Your wife, your girl babies—­remember them.  Think of them.  This is my work, not yours.”  Instantly he dashed outside, returning with the axe he had hidden in the wagon.  Without a glance in any direction, he strode into the centre of the log lodge, the dark worshippers fell aside, surprised into silence, and the slender Mohawk boy braced his shoulders, lifted his head, and—­