rtion of the tribe, his courage and his fame as an
orator were undeniable. He never spoke without auditors, and rarely
without making converts to his opinions. On the present occasion, his
native powers were stimulated by the thirst of revenge.

He again recounted the events of the attack on the island at Glenn's,
the death of his associates and the escape of their most formidable
enemies. Then he described the nature and position of the mount whither
he had led such captives as had fallen into their hands. Of his own
bloody intentions toward the maidens, and of his baffled malice he made
no mention, but passed rapidly on to the surprise of the party by "La
Longue Carabine," and its fatal termination. Here he paused, and looked
about him, in affected veneration for the departed, but, in truth,
to note the effect of his opening narrative. As usual, every eye was
riveted on his face. Each dusky figure seemed a breathing statue, so
motionless was the posture, so intense the attention of the individual.

Then Magua dropped his voice which had hitherto been clear, strong and
elevated, and touched upon the merits of the dead. No quality that was
likely to command the sympathy of an Indian escaped his notice. One
had never been known to follow the chase in vain; another had been
indefatigable on the trail of their enemies. This was brave, that
generous. In short, he so managed his allusions, that in a nation which
was composed of so few families, he contrived to strike every chord that
might find, in its turn, some breast in which to vibrate.

"Are the bones of my young men," he concluded, "in the burial-place of
the Hurons? You know they are not. Their spirits are gone toward the
setting sun, and are already crossing the great waters, to the happy
hunting-grounds. But they departed without food, without guns or knives,
without moccasins, naked and poor as they were born. Shall this be?
Are their souls to enter the land of the just like hungry Iroquois or
unmanly Delawares, or shall they meet their friends with arms in their
hands and robes on their backs? What will our fathers think the tribes
of the Wyandots have become? They will look on their children with a
dark eye, and say, 'Go! a Chippewa has come hither with the name of a
Huron.' Brothers, we must not forget the dead; a red-skin never ceases
to remember. We will load the back of this Mohican until he staggers
under our bounty, and dispatch him after my young men. The