“I have nothing to say to my children. I have explained all to them; and they are satisfied. But to you, Tecumseh, my brother, I have this to say: I have aided you; I have furthered your plans. You went away and left me to hold in check our restless young men. They refused to listen to my words. I could not control them. The palefaces sent an army against us. I talked with the Great Spirit. He promised me the victory. My children went into the battle. They fought valiantly; but they were overcome. Smarting with defeat, they heaped reproaches upon me. They buffeted me and spit upon me. I bore it all. I showed them my power—I acknowledged my mistake. And all was well. Now you come to abuse me. I have borne much—I will bear no more!”
Scarcely had the Prophet concluded, when Tecumseh, beside himself with boiling fury, shouted:
“Yes, you will bear more—you will bear this at my hands!”
Springing forward, he caught his brother by the throat and choked him until his brutal face was purple. The savages looked on in utter amazement; but no one offered to interfere. Tenskwatawa’s tongue protruded. He gurgled and gasped for breath. Douglas turned his back upon the sickening spectacle. As he did so, his eyes met those of Bradford. In answer to the younger man’s mute appeal, the older sadly shook his head. Ross understood. Not a soul in the assemblage dared to brave Tecumseh’s mad rage.
Nevertheless, there was one in the camp who did not stand in awe of the great chief. That person was La Violette. From her cabin door she had noted Tecumseh’s arrival, had observed the meeting of the two brothers, and had witnessed their wordy encounter and its result. Now she appeared upon the scene. The warriors saw her coming and respectfully stepped aside to let her pass. With the speed and grace of a fawn, she ran toward the spot where the Prophet was struggling in the iron grasp of his enraged brother. Her light feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground; her unconfined tresses streamed behind her; her violet eyes sparkled with excitement.
A small white hand was laid upon Tecumseh’s arm, and an imperious young voice commanded:
“Hold, noble chief! Would you kill Tenskwatawa—the prophet of his people—my father!”
Like one suddenly recalled from a delirium, Tecumseh loosened his hold upon his brother’s throat and staggered back a step. Slowly he lifted his eyes. They met those of La Violette—and he stood abashed before her.
The Prophet, released from the other’s cruel grasp, sank upon the ground, shivering and moaning. The purplish hue forsook his face; a deathly pallor succeeded it. He attempted to arise, but his limbs refused to do his bidding. His lips trembled. He was overcome with fear.
La Violette looked upon the cowering wretch, and her face flushed scarlet. Her violet eyes snapped angrily. Shame—not pity—was in her voice, as she cried: