When Yanatah and his party were informed of the Prophet's commands, clouds of fear passed over them, for they knew that they had acted counter to his expressed orders, and committed an act which might involve their tribe in war, and lead to its total extirpation. Hurried away by revenge, these thoughts had not before suggested themselves; but now that they were about to stand in the dread presence of the Prophet, they all swept past, and they saw before them only the ruin into which their rashness had plunged them, and trembled, not with personal fear, but at that intangible something, which gave character to the Prophet, and rendered him the dreaded object of their hopes as well as fears. With downcast countenances, and in dogged silence, they moved forward to his tent, and making humble obeisance stood uncovered before him. He seemed not to regard their entrance, but remained for a time muttering with his lips, and rolling his eyes towards heaven, as if repeating some prayer, then turning on them a savage gaze, he looked as though he would have looked them through. When his scrutiny was over, he said, “why the scalp yell, Yanatah? Has the Great Spirit sent red war upon our lands, or does the Prophet, his agent, preach peace unto the tribes?” Yanatah cast his eyes upon the ground, and was silent. “Speak,” said the Prophet, “whence these cries of murder in the air? Who dares lift the tomahawk? Shall battle rage, and I not know it; I, the chosen of the Great Spirit? Speak!” Yanatah paused for an instant, then nerving himself for the effort, looked the Prophet in his mighty face, and spoke: “Chosen of the Great Spirit, listen! A brother, dear to my heart, was slain by the whites. I sought their wigwams, and demanded his murderer. They gave me promises. I went again; they laughed me to scorn. His blood cried for vengeance, and I sought it.” He was then silent, and the Prophet's visage assumed rather a gentler aspect, and he said: “Thou hast done wrong, Yanatah; the hatchet is buried; the Prophet of the Great Spirit will tell the red men when to strike;” then, pausing for a moment, he continued: “Did no pale face escape?” “Not one,” answered Yanatah, “darkness was over the land; yet a captive lives, and is here, a slave for my mother, who weeps for her son.” “It is well,” said the Prophet; then pausing again, and rolling his eyes toward heaven, and muttering with his lips that those before him might see he held converse with the Great Spirit, he continued with renewed energy, “Yanatah, take thy band and away, far, far from our camp. Blood red are thy steps, and the whites follow on, like hounds on the track. Be seen no more, till a runner from the Prophet calls thee to battle. Away!—”