“The story is yours to hear,” said the Mohawk, “if you would see how peace grows out of deeds of blood, as the blue iris grows from the blackness of the swamp; but it is the flower that the sun loves, not the roots, buried in the darkness, from which the blossom springs.  So we of the red race say that the sun shines on peace alone, not the black depths beneath it.”

The Mohawk paused and locked his hands about his knees, while the boy stretched himself at full length and stared up at the far sky beyond the interlacing branches overhead.  He loved to lie thus, listening to the quaint tales of olden days that Queetah had stored up in his wonderful treasure-house of memory.  Everything the Indian possessed had associated with it some wild tale of early Canadian history, some strange half-forgotten Indian custom or legend, so he listened now to the story of the last time that the ancient Indian law of “a life for a life” was carried out in the beautiful Province of Ontario, while the low, even voice of the Mohawk described the historical event, giving to the tale the Indian term for the word “peace,” which means “the silver chain that does not tarnish.”

“This was the tomahawk of my grandsire, who had won his eagle plume by right of great bravery.  For had he not at your age—­just fifteen years—­stood the great national test of starving for three days and three nights without a whimper?  Did not this make him a warrior, with the right to sit among the old men of his tribe, and to flaunt his eagle plume in the face of his enemy?  Ok-wa-ho was his name; it means ’The Wolf,’ and young as he was, like the wolf he could snarl and show his fangs.  His older brother was the chief, tall and terrible, with the scowl of thunder on his brow and the gleaming fork of lightning in his eyes.  This chief thought never of council fires or pipes or hunting or fishing, he troubled not about joining the other young men in their sports of lacrosse or snow-snake, or bowl-and-beans; to him there was nothing in life but the warpath, no song but the war cry, no color but the war paint.  Daily he sharpened his scalping knife, daily he polished his tomahawk, daily feathered and poisoned his arrows, daily he sought enemies, taunted them, insulted them, braved them and conquered them; while his young brother, Ok-wa-ho, rested in their lodge listening to the wisdom of the old men, learning their laws and longing for peace.  Once Ok-wa-ho had said, ’My brother, stay with us, wash from thy cheeks the black and scarlet; thy tomahawk has two ends:  one is an edge, dyed often in blood, but show us that thou hast not forgotten how to use the other end—­fill thy pipe.’

“‘Little brother,’ replied the chief, ’thou art yet but a stripling boy; smoke, then, the peace pipe, but it is not for me.’