The grim face of Do-ne-ho-ga-weh was alight with the joy of battle.
"Behold, O my son," he called to me, "the warriors of the Eight Clans are with us. Our brothers of the Turtle, Beaver, Bear and Wolf, and our younger brothers of the Snipe, Heron, Deer and Hawk, all hunger for the scalps of the Keepers of the Trail.
"A thousand braves will follow us on the war-path. We will give the French a lesson. They shall see the might of the Long House."
But the light faded from his features as Ta-wan-ne-ars told him of the message from Marjory. A look of cold hatred accentuated the grimness of the hooked nose and high cheekbones.
"The French dog de Veulle is wearied of Ga-ha-no," he rasped. "He has had enough of the red maiden. Now he craves the white. Yes, it is well that my red nephew and my white son should go against this man who knows no laws to curb his lust.
"He may think that I am only an Indian, but my fathers have been roy-an-ehs and chiefs for more moons than I could count in the whole of a moon. They sat beside the Founders. They took in marriage and they gave in marriage. It is time that this insult to their memory was wiped out. Let it be wiped out in a river of blood. Then, O my nephew and my son, draw; his scalp across his trail so that no man can tell he ever passed. I charge you, do not spare him."
"We will not spare him, O ha-nih,[[1]]" I promised.
[[1]] Father.
"Good! It shall be as you ask. Corlaer shall guide me to the Doom Trail. How many warriors are to go with you?"
We debated this point together, and decided that for purposes of swift movement and secrecy we had best restrict our escort to twenty men. Do-ne-ho-ga-weh approved this number.