"The Scotch had a great chief named Wallace, a mighty warrior. When he set out for war the earth trembled under his feet. He was as tall as yonder fir-tree and as strong as an army. An accursed wretch betrayed him for money, he was taken prisoner and sentenced to be hung. At this news a cry of rage and grief went up from all the mountains of Scotland. All the warriors painted their faces black, a great council was held, and ten chiefs bearing the pipe of peace set out for England. They were conducted into a great wigwam, the council fire was lighted, and for a long time every one spoke in silence. At length an old chief took up the word, and said: 'My brother, the earth has drunk enough of the blood of these two great nations, and we wish to bury the hatchet. Give us back Wallace and we will remain hostages in his place. You shall put us to death if ever again he lifts the tomahawk against you.' With these words he handed the pipe of peace to the Great Ononthio of the English, who waved it aside, saying sternly, 'Within three days Wallace shall be hung.' 'Listen my brother,' said the great Scotch chief, 'if Wallace must die let him die the death of a warrior. Hanging is a death for dogs.' And again he presented the pipe of peace, and Ononthio refused it. The deputies withdrew and consulted together. On their return the great chief said: 'Let my brother hearken favorably to my last words. Let him fix eleven stakes to burn Wallace and these ten warriors, who will be proud to share his fate and will thank their brother for his clemency.' Once more he offered the pipe of peace, and once more Ononthio rejected it." "Houa!" cried Grand-Loutre, "those were noble and generous words. But my brother has not told me how the Scotch are now friends with the English and fighting against the French." "With rage in their hearts, the deputies returned to their mountains. At their death-cries, which they uttered at the gate of every town and village to announce the fate of Wallace, every one rushed to arms; and the war between the two nations continued for as many moons as there are grains of sand here in my hand," said Dumais, picking up a handful. "The Scotch were generally beaten by their swarming enemies, and their rivers ran with blood, but they knew not how to yield. The war would have been going on still but for a traitor who warned the English that nine Scotch chiefs, having gathered in a cavern to drink fire-water, had fallen to sleep there like our brother Talamousse." "The red-skins," said Grand-Loutre, "are never traitors to their own people. They deceive their enemies, but never their friends. Will my brother tell me how it comes that there are traitors among the pale faces?" Dumais, a little puzzled to answer this question, went on as if he had not heard it.