At last the wonderful Dance Day arrived.  His lordship, the Bishop of the Anglican Church, drove down from the city of Brantford; with him the Superintendent of Indian Affairs, and a man who understood both the English and the Onondaga languages.  Long before they reached the “Longhouse” they could hear the wild beat of the drum, could count the beats of the dance rattles, could distinguish the half-sad chant of the worshippers.  The kind face of the great bishop was very grave.  It pained his gentle old heart to know that this great tribe of Indians were pagans—­savages, as he thought—­but when he entered that plain log building that the Onondagas held as their church, he took off his hat with the beautiful reverence all great men pay to other great men’s religion, and he stood bareheaded while old Ten-Canoes chanted forth this speech: 

“Oh, brothers of mine!  We welcome the white man’s friend, the great ‘Black-Coat,’ to this, our solemn worship.  We offer to the red man’s God—­the Great Spirit—­a burnt offering.  We do not think that anything save what is pure and faithful and without blemish can go into the sight of the Great Spirit.  Therefore do we offer this dog, pure as we hope our spirits are, that the God of the red man may accept it with our devotion, knowing that we, too, would gladly be as spotless as this sacrifice.”

Then was a dog carried in dead, and beautifully decorated with wampum, beads and porcupine embroidery.  Oh! so mercifully dead and out of pain, gently strangled by reverent fingers, for an Indian is never unkind to an animal.  And far over in a corner of the room was a little brown figure, twisted with agony, choking back the sobs and tears—­for was he not taught that tears were for babies alone, and not for boys that grew up into warriors?

“Oh, my dog! my dog!” he muttered.  “They have taken you away from me, but it was for the honor of my father and of my own people.”

The great Anglican bishop turned at that moment, and, catching the sight of suffering on little We-hro’s face, said aloud to the man who spoke both languages: 

“That little boy over there seems in torture.  Can I do anything for him, do you think?”

“That little boy,” replied the man who spoke both languages, “is the son of the great Onondaga chief.  No white dog could be found for this ceremony but his.  This dog was his pet, but for the honor of his father and of his tribe he has given up his pet as a sacrifice.”

For a moment the great Anglican bishop was blinded by his own tears.  Then he walked slowly across the wide log building and laid his white hand tenderly on the head of the little Onondaga boy.  His kindly old eyes closed, and his lips moved—­noiselessly, for a space, then he said aloud: 

“Oh, that the white boys of my great city church knew and practiced half as much of self-denial as has this little pagan Indian lad, who has given up his heart’s dearest because his father and the honor of his people required it.”