holding the dancing chief in a sort of a spell by
the power of a spirit greater than that of Yahnundasis. Yet it could not
last; in a minute or two the chief must break the charm, and then,
unless someone interfered, he would cast the tomahawk. Obviously the
interference should come from de Peyster. But would he do it? Henry did
not dare take his eyes from those of Yahnundasis in order to look at the
Tory Colonel.

The savage now was maddened completely with his song, the dance, and
the wine that he had drunk. Faster and faster whirled the hatchet, but
with his powerful gaze deep into the eyes of the other, Henry still
sought to restrain the hand that would hurl the deadly weapon. It became
a pain, both physical and mental, to strain so. He wanted to look aside,
to see the others, and to know why they did not stop so wild a scene. He
was conscious of a great silence, save for the singing and dancing of
the Indian and the beating of his own heart. He felt convinced now that
no one was going to interfere, and his hand stole towards one of the
large knives that had been used for cutting meat.

The voice of Yahnundasis rose to a shriek and he leaped like a
snake-dancer. Henry felt sure that the tomahawk was going to come, but
while he yet stared at the savage he caught a glimpse of a tall,
splendidly arrayed figure springing suddenly upright. It was
Timmendiquas and he, too, drew a tomahawk. Then with startling quickness
he struck Yahnundasis with the flat of the blade. Yahnundasis fell as if
he had been slain. The tomahawk flew wildly from his hand, and dark
blood from his broken crown mingled with the red and black paint on his
face. Timmendiquas stood up, holding his own tomahawk threateningly, an
angry look darting from his eyes.

"Take him away," he said, indicating Yahnundasis, in a contemptuous
tone. "To-morrow let him nurse his bruised head and reflect that it is
not well to be a fool. It is not meet that a warrior, even be he a
chief, should threaten a prisoner, when we come to a feast to talk of
great things."

As a murmur of assent came from the chiefs about him, he resumed his
seat in dignified silence. Henry said nothing, nor did he allow his
countenance to change, but deep in his heart he felt that he owed
another debt to the Wyandot chieftain. De Peyster and Caldwell exchanged
glances. Both knew that they had allowed the affair to go too far, but
both alike resented the stern rebuke contained in the words