Few were the whites in number, and about
The council-fire were gathered dusky throngs,
From whose dark bosoms time had not washed out
The bitter memory of recent wrongs.
Some longed to wake their ancient battle-songs,
And on the reeking spoils of conflict gaze—
Bind the pale captive to the stake with thongs,
And hellish yells of exultation raise,
While shriveled up his form, and blackened in the blaze.
The compact for a cession of their land