CHAPTER XVII.
Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour;
With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing
As e'er won maiden's lips in moonlight bower;
With look like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as the birds in air;
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's hair?
—HALLECK'S Red-Jacket.
Although the arrival of the runner was so totally unexpected, it scarcely disturbed the quiet of that grave assembly. His approaching step had been heard, and he was introduced in the manner mentioned, when the young chief resumed his seat, leaving the messenger standing near the centre of the circle, and altogether within the influence of the light. He was an Ottawa, and had evidently travelled far and fast. At length he spoke; no one having put a single question to him, or betrayed the least sign of impatient curiosity.
“I come to tell the chiefs what has happened,” said the runner. “Our Great Father from Quebec has sent his young men against the Yankees. Red warriors, too, were there in hundreds—” here a murmur of interest was slightly apparent among the chiefs—“their path led them to Detroit; it is taken.”
A low murmur, expressive of satisfaction, passed round the circle, for Detroit was then the most important of all the posts held by the Americans, along the whole line of the great lakes. Eye met eye in surprise and admiration; then one of the older chiefs yielded to his interest in the subject, and inquired:
“Have our young men taken many pale-face scalps?”
“So few that they are not worth counting. I did not see one pole that was such as an Indian loves to look on.”
“Did our young men keep back, and let the warriors from Quebec do all the fighting?”