fire and the torments of the avengers, he will tell us so by the words of his mouth. If he do not speak, it shall be done to her as the Old Eagle and his brothers have said."
The head chief said, "Chenos has spoken well; wisdom is in his words. Make for the strange woman a soft bed of skins, and treat her kindly, for it may be she is the daughter of the Great Spirit."
Then the Indians all returned to their cabins and slept, save the Mad Buffalo, who, fearing for the life of his prisoner, laid himself down at the door of the lodge and watched.
When the morning came, the head warrior went to the forest and killed a deer, fat and proper for an offering, which he brought to Chenos, who prepared it for a sacrifice; and he sang a song while the flesh lay on the fire:—
Song of Chenos.
We have built the fire;
The deer we have kill'd;
The skin and the horns we have parted from the flesh;
The flesh is laid on the burning coals;
The sweetness thereof goes up in the smoke:—
Master of Life, wilt thou come and claim thine own?
Wilt thou come, Great Spirit of our fathers,
And say if we may harbour revenge, and not anger thee?
Shall we plant the stake, and bind the fair-one?
The beautiful maid, with her hair like bunches of grapes,
And her eyes like the blue sky,
And her skin white as the blossoms of the forest-tree,
And her voice as the music of a little stream,
And her step as the bound of the young fawn?
Shall her soft flesh be torn with sharp thorns,
And burn'd with fiery flames?
"Let us listen," said Chenos, stopping the warriors in their dance. "Let us see if the Great Spirit hears us."
They listened, but could not hear him singing. Chenos asked him why he would not speak, but he did not answer. Then they sung again:—
Shall the flame we have kindled expire?
Shall the sacrifice-embers go out?
Shall the maiden be free from the fire?
Shall the voice of revenge wake no shout?
We ask that our feet may be strong
In the way thou wouldst have us to go;
Let thy voice, then, be heard in the song,
That thy will, and our task, we may know.
"Hush," said Chenos, listening; "I hear the crowing of the Great Turkey-Cock9; I hear him speaking." They stopped, and Chenos went close to the fire, and talked with his master, but nobody saw with whom he talked. "What does the Great Spirit tell his prophet?" asked the head chief.
Chenos answered, "He says the young woman must not be offered to him; he wills her to live, and become the mother of many children."
Many of the chiefs and warriors were pleased that the beautiful woman was to live. They wished to make her their daughter; but those who had lost their brothers and sons in the war were not appeased. They said, "We will have blood. We will have revenge for our sons. We will go to the priest of the Evil Spirit, and ask him if his master will not give us revenge."
Not far from where our nation had their council-fire there was a great hill, covered with stunted trees, and moss, and rugged rocks. There was a great cave in it, how great none of the Indians could tell, save Sketupah, the priest of the Evil Spirit, for no one but he had ever entered it. He lived in this cave, and there did worship to his master. It was a strange place, and much feared by the Indians. If a man but spoke a word at the mouth of it, somebody from within mocked him in a strange, hoarse voice, which sounded like the first of the thunders. And just so many and the same words as the man at the mouth of the cave spoke, the spirit in the cave repeated.10
Sketupah was a strange old creature, whom the oldest living man of the nation never saw but as he now was. He would have been very tall if he had been straight, but he was more crooked than a warped bow. His hair looked like a bunch of snakes, and his eyes like two coals of fire. His mouth reached from ear to ear, and his legs, which were very long, were no bigger than a sapling of two snows. He was, indeed, a very fearful old man, and the Indians feared him scarcely less than the Evil One. Many were the gifts which our nation made to Sketupah, to gain his favour and the favour of his master. Who but he feasted on the fattest buffalo hump? Who but he fed on the earliest ear of milky corn?—on the best things which grew on the land or in the water? The fears of the Indian fed him with the choicest things of the land.
The Old Eagle went to the mouth of the cave, and cried with a loud voice, "Sketupah!"
"Sketupah," answered the hoarse voice of the Evil Spirit from the hollow cave. Soon Sketupah came, and asked the Old Eagle what he wanted.
"Revenge for our sons, who have been killed by the Walkullas and their friends, who live beyond the Great Lake, and came on the back of a great bird. Revenge we must have."
"Revenge we ask, revenge we must have," said the hoarse voice in the cave.
"Will your master hear us?" asked the Old Eagle of the priest.
"My master must have a sacrifice, he must smell blood," said the ugly old man. "Then we shall know if he will give you revenge. Go in the morning to the woods, and take a wolf, a rattlesnake, and a tortoise, and bring them to me at the mouth of the cave, when the great star of day is coming out of the Suwaney."
The Old Eagle, and the other chiefs and warriors who asked revenge, did as Sketupah bade them. They went to the woods, and took a wolf, a tortoise, and a rattlesnake, and brought them, the wolf growling, the snake hissing, and the tortoise snapping his teeth, to the priest.
He bade them build a fire of pine, and the tree which bears poisonous flowers11, and the hemlock, and the grape-vine which bears no fruit. They did as he bade them, and made the fire flame high. Then Sketupah prepared the sacrifice. First he skinned the wolf, then he shelled the tortoise. He bound the wolf's skin upon himself with the snake, and with his entrails he fastened the shell of the tortoise upon his head. Then he laid the carcasses of the wolf, and the snake and the tortoise, upon the fire, and danced around it, while he sang to his master the following song:—
Song of Sketupah.
We have slain the beasts:—
The hissing snake, with poisonous fangs;
The wolf, whose teeth are red with Indian blood;
And the creeping tortoise, the dweller in deep fens;
We have slain them.
Lo! they are laid on hissing coals:
Wilt thou come, Spirit of Evil, and claim thine own?
The sons of the Shawanos lie low,
Far from the burial-place of their fathers;
Red wounds are on their breasts,
Cold and stiff are their limbs;
Their eyes see not the ways of men,
Nor the rising or setting of the great star,
Nor the blooming of spring-flowers,
Nor the glad glances of young maidens:
They sleep in the vale of death.
They fell, and no revenge,
No torments of foes, appease them in the land of spirits;
No shoutings of brother warriors
Gladden their shades;
The camp of their nation is mute;
They are forgotten by their women;
The bright eyes of their maidens
Have no tears