They were not long in consultation, and then separated, the chiefs going about among the men and giving their orders. Then a long-sounding whoop from Black-Hawk called them into line, and they began to circle about the tree, pointing their fingers scornfully at the prisoner. Then Black-Hawk advanced and bared the breast of the prisoner, exposing the totem of his tribe.
“Look,” he said, “he bears upon his bosom the sign of a great tribe. This is not well, and it must be removed. Wa-be-ke-zhick, advance, and cut the totem from his flesh.”
“Cut away the totem of the great tribe,” cried the warriors. “He has no right to wear it, who is a dog. Cut it away!”
The countenance of Little Fox was distorted with rage more than fear. Drunken and worthless as he had become, he was a true Indian, and felt keenly the disgrace about to be put upon him.
“Do not dare to make a chief a dog,” he hissed. “Give me the torture, or give me death. Have I no friend among this people who will strike a sharp knife into my breast?”
“Has he a friend among the warriors who will do this?” said Black-Hawk. “Let him speak.”
No voice replied, and the countenance of Little Fox changed from hope to fear.
“He has no friend,” cried Black-Hawk. “Advance, Wa-be-ke-zhick; cut away the totem.”
It was done, and Little Fox, if he lived, was ostracised for ever from his tribe and death would be to him a happy release. In the mean time, a great caldron had been placed upon a fire, and in this the keg of rum was poured, and a great quantity of gourds piled up beside it. The spirits had now begun to bubble, and taking up a little in a gourd, Black-Hawk advanced and offered it to the condemned man.
“For this you sold us to the white men, Little Fox. Drink, now that I give it to you. It is warm—it is good—it will make you strong.”