Then Yellow Leaf began to dance an erratic, weird dance—and, somehow, I thought of dead leaves eddying in a raw wind as he whirled around the fire, singing his first scalp-song:
"Who are the Yanyengi,[13] that a
Saguenay should fear them?
They are but Mowaks,[14] and
Real men jeer them!
I am a warrior; I wear the lock!
I am brother to the People of the Rock![15]
Red is my hatchet; my knife is red;
Woe to the Mengwe, who wail their dead!
I wear the Little Red Foot and the Hawk;
Death to the Maquas who stone and mock!
Koué! Haï!"
An Oneida
"Hah!
Hawasahsai!
Hah!"
The Saguenay
"Who are the Yanyengi, that
Real men should obey them?
We People of the Dawn were
Born to slay them!
I eat twigs in winter when there is no game;
What does he eat, the Maqua? What means his name?
To each of us a Little Red Foot! To each his clan!
Let the Mengwe flee when they scent a Man!
Koué! Haï!"
And
"Hah! Hawasahsai!"
chanted the Oneidas, trotting to and fro in the uncertain red light, while we white men sat, chin on fist, a-watching them; and the little sorceress of Askalege beat her palms softly together, timing the rhythm for lack of a drum.
An hour passed: my Indians still danced and sang and bragged of deeds done and deeds to be accomplished; my young sorceress sat asleep, her head fallen back against me, her lips just parted. At her feet a toad, attracted by the insects which came into the fire-ring, jumped heavily from time to time and snapped them up.