Tecumseh waved his hand. The warrior at the witch-drum began to beat, tump-a-tump, tump-a-tump. From the crowding braves rose a chant, low at first, but swiftly gaining volume.
Look down, oh! gods, look upon us! We gaze afar on your dwelling.
Look down while here we are standing, look down upon us, ye mighty!
Ye thunder gods, now behold us!
Ye lightning gods, now behold us!
Ye that bring life, now behold us!
Ye that bring death, now behold us!
Aid us and help us. For we fight for thee.
Loud and wild swelled the chant, the ritual of the tribesmen. Then it slowly died away. The ranks of standing warriors dissolved and vanished. The white men marched away, General Proctor at their head. Jack rose to follow, but as he did so his arms were grasped on either side and he was held powerless. “White man stop,” muttered a gutteral voice in his ear. “Tecumseh speak with him.”