"Warrior of the pale-faces," said Bough of the Oak, "we are going to
cut the withe. You will then be where a brave man will want all his
courage. If you are firm, we will do you honor; if you faint and
screech, our young men will laugh at you. This is the way with
Injins. They honor braves; they point the finger at cowards."
Here a sign was made by Bear's Meat, and a warrior raised the
tomahawk that was to separate the fastenings, His hand was in the
very act of descending, when the crack of a rifle was heard, and a
little smoke rose out of the thicket, near the spot where the bee-
hunter and the corporal, himself, had remained so long hid, on the
occasion of the council first held in that place. The tomahawk fell,
however, the withes were parted, and up flew the saplings, with a
violence that threatened to tear the arms of the victim out of their
sockets.
The Indians listened, expecting the screeches and groans;--they
gazed, hoping to witness the writhings of their captive. But they
were disappointed. There hung the body, its arms distended, still
holding the tops of the saplings bowed, but not a sign of life was
seen. A small line of blood trickled down the forehead, and above it
was the nearly imperceptible hole made by the passage of a bullet.
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