as human beings,
dance to the accompaniment of a strange crooning of the women onlookers;
to the beating of sad-toned drums, and the harsh scraping of stringed
instruments. But the dance is marked by a distinct time. It has
unmistakable features and figures, and it proceeds to its natural finish
which leaves the dancers prostrate upon the ground, with their faces
pressed hard into the dusty earth. It is a wild scene.

But the Sun-dance has only begun. There is much to follow.

Now a single figure moves out of the crowd, and takes its position in the
arena. It is the young chief. His attitude is one of sublime dignity. His
erect figure and haughty carriage bear the indelible stamp of his
illustrious forbears. Silently he raises one hand, and a deathly hush
falls upon his people.

And Little Black Fox speaks.

Tall, handsome, lithe, a frame of great bone and smooth sinewy muscle, he
is an imposing figure. He wears no blanket, just the buckskin, beaded as
becomes his high rank.

He harangues mightily, now working himself into an almost uncontrolled
fury, again letting his voice die down to that plaintive, musical note
which alone belongs to the Sioux tongue. And his speech is of war--wild,
fierce, unreasonable war, such as his people love. He is thrilling with
the untamed spirit of his ancestors, and every word he utters carries a
ready conviction to the untutored souls to whom it is addressed.

He sweeps on in a torrential flow of passion, and those who listen are
roused at once to a savage enthusiasm. There are no interruptions. The
oration is received in complete silence. These are Indians taken into
their sovereign's council; they are there to hear while the young brave
pronounces, with all the fire of his ardent, aboriginal nature, the doom
of their white masters.

The wise men of the council are grouped together and sit aloof. They sit
like mummies, smoking, and with every appearance of indifference. But
their ears are wide open. One alone displays interest, and it is
noticeable that he is different from all the rest of the aged group. He is
younger. He has blue eyes and fair hair, and his skin is pale. Yet he,
too, is blanketed like his companions. He listens acutely to the end of
the speech. Then he silently moves away, and, unheeded, becomes lost in
the adjacent woods.

As the chieftain's last words die away the men of "med'cine" rise from
their groveling attitude and a fresh dance begins. But this time