That looked bad indeed.
This night guards were doubled along the parapets, and in the block-houses. The major himself walked guard most of the night. From the distant villages of the Ottawas, the Wyandots, and the Potawatomis drifted the clamor of dances—an ugly sound, full of meaning, now.
Precisely at ten o'clock in the morning a host of bark canoes from the Ottawa side of the Detroit River slanted across the current, and made landing. Pontiac approached at the head of a long file of thirty chiefs and as many warriors. They walked with measured, stately tread. Every man was closely wrapped in a gay blanket.
They were admitted through the gate of the fort, but it was closed against the mass of warriors, women and children who pressed after.
As Pontiac, with his escort, stalked for the council room, his quick glances saw that the soldiers were formed, under arms, and moving from spot to spot, and that a double rank had been stationed around the headquarters.
In the council chamber he noted, too, that each officer wore his sword, and two pistols!
"Why," asked Pontiac, of Major Gladwyn, "do I see so many of my father's young men standing in the street with their guns?"
"It is best that my young men be exercised as soldiers, or they will grow lazy and forget," answered the major.
Ha! Pontiac knew. Somehow his plans had been betrayed; his game was up, unless he chose an open fight.
His chiefs and warriors sat uneasily. They all feared death. By Indian law they ought to be killed for having intended to shed blood in a calumet council.