of the Wyandots.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Late in the afternoon of that day Isaac was awakened from his heavy
slumber and told that the chief had summoned him. He got up from the
buffalo robes upon which he had flung himself that morning,
stretched his aching limbs, and walked to the door of the lodge.

The view before him was so familiar that it seemed as if he had
suddenly come home after being absent a long time. The last rays of
the setting sun shone ruddy and bright over the top of the Standing
Stone; they touched the scores of lodges and wigwams which dotted
the little valley; they crimsoned the swift, narrow river, rushing
noisily over its rocky bed. The banks of the stream were lined with
rows of canoes; here and there a bridge made of a single tree
spanned the stream. From the camp fires long, thin columns of blue
smoke curled lazily upward; giant maple trees, in them garb of
purple and gold, rose high above the wigwams, adding a further
beauty to this peaceful scene.

As Isaac was led down a lane between two long lines of tepees the
watching Indians did not make the demonstration that usually marked
the capture of a paleface. Some of the old squaws looked up from
their work round the campfires and steaming kettles and grinned as
the prisoner passed. The braves who were sitting upon their blankets
and smoking their long pipes, or lounging before the warm blazes
maintained a stolid indifference; the dusky maidens smiled shyly,
and the little Indian boys, with whom Isaac had always been a great
favorite, manifested their joy by yelling and running after him. One
youngster grasped Isaac round the leg and held on until he was
pulled away.

In the center of the village were several lodges connected with one
another and larger and more imposing than the surrounding tepees.
These were the wigwams of the chief, and thither Isaac was
conducted. The guards led him to a large and circular apartment and
left him there alone. This room was the council-room. It contained
nothing but a low seat and a knotted war-club.

Isaac heard the rattle of beads and bear claws, and as he turned a
tall and majestic Indian entered the room. It was Tarhe, the chief
of all the Wyandots. Though Tarhe was over seventy, he walked erect;
his calm face, dark as a bronze mask, showed no trace of his
advanced age. Every line and feature of his face had race in it; the
high forehead, the square, protruding jaw, the stern mou