Tenskwatawa did not resent Winnemac’s insult. Instead, he lifted his hand to command silence; and, as soon as he could make himself heard, began meekly:
“Tenskwatawa is no warrior—he is the Prophet of the Great Spirit. Tenskwatawa is no squaw, though he has borne the burdens of his people for many moons. The Great Spirit promised Tenskwatawa the victory, and he gave the message to his children. The Great Spirit did not lie——”
“Tenskwatawa lied!” Winnemac shouted fiercely.
Unheeding the interruption, the Prophet continued:
“The Great Spirit made no mistake; but Tenskwatawa blundered. He parted with his sign—his power. He gave it to the noble Winnemac, that he might lead his warriors to victory. Tenskwatawa robbed himself of his power—he was helpless. The noble Winnemac could make no use of the sign—he knew not the secret of its power. The battle was lost. Tenskwatawa blundered.”
Grunts of approval followed this apparently frank confession. Seeing which, Winnemac cried sneeringly:
“Tenskwatawa lost his power—and it is gone forever. He is a babbling papoose!”
“Return to him his sign, and he will show the noble Winnemac that he is mistaken,” the Prophet returned quietly.
“Take it!” sneered Winnemac, drawing the ring from his finger and contemptuously flinging it at the feet of its owner.
Tenskwatawa secured the talisman and restored it to its accustomed place upon his right hand. Instantly a remarkable change took place in his aspect and demeanor. No longer was he a humble suppliant begging pardon for past mistakes. He proudly drew himself erect, his lips curling scornfully. The pupil of his eye contracted. The ring upon his finger scintillated in the rays of the morning sun. With a sinuous, snake-like movement, he glided to Winnemac’s side; and suddenly pushing the sparkling jewel before the startled chief’s eyes, hissed: