Others around me, now, were listening to the burly young Oneida's account of their first war-path; and presently their young sorceress took up the tale in English and in Oneida, explaining with lively gestures to both red men and white.
"Not one of the Mohawks saw us," she said scornfully, "and when they made a camp and had sent their hunters out to kill game, we came so near that we could see their warriors curing and hooping the scalps they had taken and painting on every scalp the Little Red Foot[10]—even on the scalps of two little boys."
Nick turned pale, but said nothing. A sickness came to my stomach and I spoke with difficulty.
"What were these scalps, little sister, which you saw the Mohawks curing?"
"White people's. Three were of men,—one very thin and gray; two were the glossy hair of women; and two the scalps of children——"
She flung back her blanket with a peculiarly graceful gesture:
"Be honoured, O white brothers, that these Mohawk dogs were forced to paint upon every scalp the Little Red Foot!"
After a silence: "Some poor settler's family," muttered Nick; and fell a-fiddling with his hatchet.
"All died fighting," I added in a dull voice.
Thiohero snapped her fingers and her dark eyes flamed.