“But the silver chain?”

With a dreamy, far-away look the Indian continued: 

“One never uses an avenging knife again.  The blade even must not be wiped; it is a dark deed, even to an Indian’s soul, and the knife must be buried on the dark side of a tree—­the north side, where the sun never shines, where the moss grows thickest.  Ok-wa-ho buried his blood-stained knife, slipping it blade downwards beneath the moss, took his unused tomahawk, and returned to his people.  ’The red man’s law is ended,’ he said.

“‘Yes, we must be as white men now,’ replied the older men, sadly.

“That night Ok-wa-ho beat into this handle these small silver hearts.  They are the badge of brotherhood with all men.  The next day white men came, explaining the new rule that must hold sway in the forest.  ’If there is bloodshed among you,’ they said, ’the laws of Canada will punish the evil-doer.  Put up your knives and tomahawks, and be at peace.’

“And as the years went on and on, these ancient Indian customs all dropped far into the past.  Only one thing remained to remind Ok-wa-ho of his barbarous, boyish deed:  it was the top branch of a tall tree waving above its fellows.  As he fished and paddled peacefully miles up the river, he could see that treetop, and his heart never forgot what was lying at its roots.  He grew old, old, until he reached the age of eighty-nine, but the tree-top still waved and the roots still held their secret.

“He came to me then.  I was but a boy myself, but his grandson, and he loved me.  He told me this strange tale, adding:  ’Queetah, my feet must soon travel up the long trail.  I would know what peace is like before I go on the journey—­come, we will unearth the knife.’  I followed where he led.  We found the weapon three feet down in the earth, where the years had weighted it.  In places the steel was still bright, but in others dark patches of rust covered the scarlet of Black Star’s blood, [Fact.] fresh seventy-three years before.

“‘It is yours,’ said Ok-wa-ho, placing it in my hand.  ’See, the sun shines on it; perhaps that will lessen the darkness of the deed, but I obeyed the Indian law.  Seventy-three years this knife has lain buried. [Fact.] It was the last law, the last law.’

“That night Ok-wa-ho began to hammer and beat and mold these silver links.  When they were finished he welded them firmly to the tomahawk, and, just before he went up the long, long trail, he gave it to me, saying, ’This blade has never tasted blood, it will never have dark spots on it like those on the knife.  The silver chain does not tarnish, for it means peace, and brotherhood of all men.’”

Queetah’s voice ceased.  The tale was ended.

“And peace has reigned ever since?” asked the boy, still looking at the far-off sky through the branches overhead.

“Peace has reigned ever since,” replied Queetah.  “The Mohawks and the palefaces are brothers, under one law.  That was the last Avenging Knife.  It is Canadian history.”