"Warriors," said he, "here is a bloody belt and a white one; take which
you choose. But behave like men. Should it be the bloody path, you may
leave this town in safety to join the English, and we shall then see
which of us can stain our shirts with the most blood. But, should it be
the path of peace as brothers of the Big Knives and of their friends the
French, and then you go to your homes and listen to the bad birds, you
will then no longer deserve to be called men and warriors,--but creatures
of two tongues, which ought to be destroyed. Let us then part this
evening in the hope that the Great Spirit will bring us together again
with the sun as brothers."
So the council broke up. White man and red went trooping into town,
staring curiously at the guard which was leading the North Wind and his
friends to another night of meditation. What their fate would be no man
knew. Many thought the tomahawk.
That night the citizens of the little village of Pain Court, as St. Louis
was called, might have seen the sky reddened in the eastward. It was the
loom of many fires at Cahokia, and around them the chiefs of the forty
tribes--all save the three in durance vile--were gathered in solemn talk.
Would they take the bloody belt or the white one? No man cared so little
as the Pale Face Chief. When their eyes were turned from the fitful
blaze of the logs, the gala light of many candles greeted them.
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