heads!”

“For which the Night-Hawk shall burn at the Seneca stake, sobbing his death-song!” shouted the Erie, so fiercely that for a moment we lay silent, hoping that by some ungovernable movement he might expose himself.

“Taunt him!” I whispered; and the Mohican said with a derisive laugh:

“Four scalp-tufts from the mangy Cats of Amochol trim my hatchet-sheath. When the young men ask me what this sparse and sickly fur may be, I shall strip it off and cast it at their feet, saying it is but Erie filth to spit upon.”

“Liar of a conquered nation!” roared the Erie, “for every priest of Amochol who fell by Otsego under your cowardly butcher’s knife, a Siwanois