Meanwhile, Mr. Nelson was talking with Single-Pine, who, exhausted with dancing, was allowing himself a brief rest and smoke. "My friend," began the missionary, "do you really believe in the power of that god of wood?"
The old chief glanced about cautiously, then, lowering his voice, said:
"I am tired, oh, Black Coat, of this thing! I would come to the
Christian's God if I could, but my people will not let me."
Mr. Nelson grasped the dark fingers resting near his own. "Chief Single-Pine," he said excitedly, "will you yourself give me leave to do away with this idol? Will you promise me that if I cut it down you will make no outcry—that you will not defend it; that you will not urge your people to rise against me; that you will sit silently, wordlessly; that you will take my part?"
For a moment the old Indian wavered, hesitated, then said desperately,
"I promise."
The missionary arose, removed his hat, and lifting his white face to heaven, prayed aloud, "God help me, make me strong and fearless to do this thing." But at his side was Wampum, his clinging brown fingers clutching the black-coated arm. He had overheard all the conversation, and his young face took on grayish shadows and lines of anxiety as he said, "No, no, Mr. Nelson, not you! They may kill you. Your wife, your girl babies—remember them. Think of them. This is my work, not yours." Instantly he dashed outside, returning with the axe he had hidden in the wagon. Without a glance in any direction, he strode into the centre of the log lodge, the dark worshippers fell aside, surprised into silence, and the slender Mohawk boy braced his shoulders, lifted his head, and—
"Don't, don't, Wampum, boy!" choked the missionary, "It is wild, it is useless. Stop, oh, stop!"
But he might as well have ordered a hurricane to stop. With a splendid sweep of strong young arms, the boy whirled the axe in a circle above his shoulders and brought it down crashing with full force on the idol. The figure split from top to base, the neck was severed, and the painted wooden head rolled ingloriously to the floor. Then, amid a stony silence, more menacing than any words, the boy stood with squared shoulders and uplifted chin, his fierce beauty more imperial, more majestic, than ever before.
For an instant the black eyes of a hundred Delaware warriors glared at him with hate and bloodshed in their depths. Then, with a furious yell, they turned to their chief for his commands, but old Single-Pine sat with bowed head, his face hidden in his hands, his lips silent. A sullen murmur ran through the throng, but they knew their chief had at last taken the great step into Christianity; and while Wampum yet stood alone and unafraid, his axe in his hand, and the head of the ruined idol at his feet, the entire tribe filed past, and one by one shook hands with the white-haired old missionary, for, as faithful followers of their chief, they, too, must embrace the white man's faith.
It was Fire-Flower who spoke first, touching the boy's hand. Wampum started, as if from a dream.