ou are our master and our
father'?"

The Long Arrow's voice had risen only slightly, but now it dropped; he
went on, in a tone that was keen as a knife, but so low that those at
the farther end of the house leaned forward and sat motionless.

"It has been said to-day to the Long House that we shall close our
ears to the thunder of the Great Mountain, that we should think of our
corn and our squaws, and leave the Senecas to fight their own battles.
But the Long House will not do this. The Long House will not give up
the liberty that has been the pride of the Iroquois since first the
rivers ran to the lake, and the moss grew on the trees, and the wind
waved the tops of the long grass. The Great Mountain has come to take
this liberty. He shall not have it. No; he shall lose his own--we will
leave his bones to dry where the Seneca dogs run loose. The Big
Buffalo shall die to tell the white man that the Iroquois never
forgets; the Great Mountain shall die to tell the white man that the
Iroquois is free."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE VOICE OF THE GREAT MOUNTAIN.

There was no lack of interest now in the council. The weariness left
the maid's eyes as she followed the speeches that came in rapid
succession. There was still the disagreement, the confusion of a dozen
different views and demands; but the speech of the Long Arrow had
pointed the discussion, it had set up an opinion to be either defended
or attacked.

"Will the Big Throat speak now?" asked Mademoiselle, leaning close to
Menard.

"I hardly think so. I don't know what will come next."

"When will you speak, M'sieu?"

"Not until word from the Big Throat. It would be a breach of
courtesy."

One warrior, a member of the Beaver family, and probably a blood
relative of the Beaver who had been killed in the fight of the
morning, took advantage of the pause to speak savagely for war and
vengeance. He counted those who had fallen since the sun rose, and
appealed to their families to destroy the man who had killed them. He
was not a chief, but his fiery speech aroused a murmur of approval
from scattered groups of the spectators. This sympathy from those
about him, with the anger which was steadily fed by his own hot words,
gradually drove from his mind the observance of etiquette which was so
large a part of an important council. Still speaking, he left his
place, and walking slowly between two of the fires and across the
circle, paused before Menard.

"The dog