"But see," he cried. "They lie in their blood upon their own soil, and the man who killed them is in our hands."
A triumphant shout went up as he said this, and fierce looks were directed at the young soldier, who returned them by a glance of haughty defiance.
"The Indians deal justly by all," said the Prophet. "No man can die by their hands who is not worthy of death for some great wrong done to the nations. Warriors and chiefs, I have gone among the white men at Vincennes, and have spoken to the war-chief Harrison. The tears have flowed from my eyes when I spoke of the wrongs of my people; yes, my tears have fallen like rain. He is a man of iron, and I can not melt him. He cares not for us, but for his own people. You stood by, Willimack, when all the chiefs were seated and Tecumseh stood up like a child about to be punished. At last they saw how great an insult this was to the great chief. They offered him a chair; but the chief looked at them with scorn when they said, 'Your father offers you a seat!' 'My father?' he cried. 'The sun is my father and the earth is my mother. I will repose on her bosom.'[1]
"The chief will bear no more. The battle must be fought and we will win again the lands of our fathers. We must not fail. The mortification of failure shall never be ours, and my great brother will not disgrace me by a mistake. I hear the warriors shout as they gather. I hear them in the South and East, in the North and West, with a sound like the summer leaves rising and rustling in the breeze. I hear their tread upon the mountains, by the silent rivers and in the green valleys. It is well. Shall Tecumseh tremble and shall Elskwatawa fail? No! The mountains and plains the Great Spirit gave us are around us, behind and before.
"I too have my warriors; and here, on the Wabash, on the Scioto, and on the broad waters of the North, my voice shall be heard for war."
He ceased for a moment, and cast a sad glance upon the bodies on the ground.
"There be our brothers, who had thought to take a part in this great battle to come. Their eyes are closed, their voices are not heard, their lips are pale, their ears hear no sound. What is this I see upon their faces? It is blood, the blood of the white man's shedding. And now, I think I hear a voice, speaking from the dead lips, and it says, 'Avenge me on my foes! My blood has been shed, and I can not cross the dark river until I smell the blood of one of the accursed race.'"
His eyes again fell upon Floyd, and fire seemed to flash from their depths.
"Who is this I see before me? His hands are red with blood. It is the blood of Negarish and Monado, of Cartain and Zeman. My brothers, let us light a fire and burn this white man, and then the souls of my brothers shall find rest and peace."
A wild cry arose from the assembled band, and they began to collect dried leaves and sticks from the surrounding woods, and pile them about the limbs of young Floyd after they had tied him to a tree. The pile rose until it reached nearly to his shoulders, and he felt that his last hour had come. He was brave enough to meet his fate, but it was agony to him to know that, when the flames had consumed his body, there would be no one left to protect his father, and Madge, whom he had hoped to make his wife when the autumn leaves were yellowing in the sun. He began to suspect that when he was gone, Willimack would go back and storm the stockade. What then would be the fate of his father and that sweet girl he could not think. Madge was brave, he knew, but, would she have strength enough, when the hour of her great peril came, to save herself from dishonor with her own hand?