There was dead silence, for The Keeper was holding his audience by the sheer force of his words, and the Chippewas were rapt in his story.
"My brothers, he answered that his faith was greater than our fire or our tomahawks. We were very glad, for we knew that he would die like a warrior. I myself set the fire around him, but he seemed to feel no pain. He gazed up at the sky and spoke to the Great Spirit as the coals fell upon him, so that we became afraid. And, my brothers, before he died we heard him ask the Great Spirit to bless us and not to take vengeance upon us. Then in truth we knew that his faith was greater than our fire, and that his Great Spirit had blunted our arrows. In the next year I went to seek out the White Father, and there I learned to know the Great Spirit, and I placed his token about my neck.
"My brothers, you have heard my story. You have asked me to deny the Great Spirit, but He has whispered to me that He is stronger than your bows and sharper than your arrows. I am sore wounded, and the end of the trail appears before me, my brothers. I have killed many of your young men, who shall journey with me on the ghost-trail to find the Great Spirit. And when I find Him I will ask him to bless you.
"Brave Eyes," and for an instant the stern voice faltered, as The Keeper turned to me, "carry this book to White Eagle, my father, and tell him that the Chippewas are women. Tell him that Ta-cha-noon-tia was a great warrior, and that I will wait for him on the Ghost-trail. Tell the Great Swift Arrow, my brother, that I will wait for him also. Tell them that we have traveled long together, and that the Great Spirit has whispered to me that He will not separate us for long. My brothers, I have spoken."
Handing the Bible to me, The Keeper turned and folded his arms calmly. For a moment the Chippewas were held under the spell of his words, then a word from Gib wakened them. With all respect they led The Keeper to a large tree outside the lodges, and bound him fast.
But as for me, I buried my head in my arms, and sobbed—great, dry, choking sobs that I could by no means check nor hinder, and cared not who saw them. For I was alone and helpless, and the bitter agony in my heart was well-nigh unendurable.
So passed Ta-cha-noon-tia, the Keeper of the Eastern Door—and never in all the North was there a passing which so truly deserved the name of martyrdom.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HUDSON'S END.
I do not think that this triumph of The Pike was greatly to his liking, after all. That speech of The Keeper had staggered him, and I caught him more than once, in the hours that followed, gazing steadfastly at the track of the Mighty One across the snows. How that track came there I know not; the moose must have passed from the forest to the ridge during the night without being seen or heard, which was like enough.