“Before the older men could stay him he was away, but first he snatched the silver chain from off his tomahawk, emptied the bowl of tobacco, destroyed all the emblems of peace, and turned his back upon the council fire.  All night long he scoured the forest for his brother’s slayer, all night long he flung from his boyish lips the dreaded war cry of the avenger, and when day broke he drank from the waters of the river, and followed the trail that led to the lodge of his mighty enemy.  Outside the door sat Black Star of the Bear Clan; astride a fallen tree he lounged arrogantly; his hands, still red with last night’s horrors, were feathering arrows.  His savage face curled into a sneer as the boy neared him.  Then a long, taunting laugh broke over the dawn, and he jeered: 

“’So, pretty maiden-boy, what hast thou to do with the Great Unconquered?’

“‘I am the brother of thy victim,’ said Ok-wa-ho, as he slipped his tomahawk from his belt, placing it on the low bark roof of the lodge, in case he needed a second weapon.

“‘The Avenger, eh?’ scoffed Black Star, mockingly.

“‘The Avenger—­yes,’ repeated the boy.  Then walking deliberately up to the savage warrior, he placed his left hand on the other’s shoulder, and, facing him squarely, said:  ’I am here to carry out the law of our people; because I am young, it does not mean that I must not obey the rules of older and wiser men.  Will you fight me now?  I demand it.’

“The other sneered.  ‘Fight you?’ he said disdainfully.  ’I do not fight babies or women.  Thou hast a woman’s wrist, a baby’s fingers.  They could not swing a tomahawk.’

“‘No?’ the boy sneered.  ’Perhaps thou art right, but they can plunge a knife.  Did thou not lend my brother a knife last night?  Yes?  Then I have come to return it.’  There was a flash of steel, a wild death cry, and Ok-wa-ho’s knife was buried to the hilt in the heart of Black Star of the Bear Clan.”

Queetah ceased speaking, for the paleface boy, lying at his feet, had shuddered and locked his teeth at the gruesome tale.

“But, Queetah,” he said, after a long pause, “I thought this was a story of peace, of ‘the silver chain that does not tarnish.’”

“It is,” replied the Indian.  “You shall hear how peace was born out of that black deed—­listen: 

“When Black Star of the Bear Clan lay dead at his feet, the centuries of fighting blood surged up in the boy’s whole body.  He placed his moccasined foot on the throat of the conquered, flung back his head, and gave the long, wild Mohawk war cry of victory.  Far off that cry reached the ears of the older men, smoking about their council fire.

“‘It is Ok-wa-ho’s voice,’ they said proudly, ’and it is the cry of victory.  We may never hear that cry again, for the white man’s law and rule begins to-day.’  Which was true, for after that the Mohawks came under the governmental laws of Canada.  It was the last time the red man’s native law of justice, of ‘blood for blood,’ was ever enacted in Ontario.  This is history—­Canadian history—­not merely a tale of horror with which to pass this winter afternoon.”  Again Queetah ceased speaking, and again the boy persisted.