Was there no hope for the aged and weary old man? no chance that these stern, revengeful spirits might relent? Will not woman, with her kind heart and gentle voice, ask that his life may be spared? Alas! it is woman's work that we are witnessing: they bound his limbs, they have beaten him, and even now are they disputing for the privilege of lighting the fire which is to consume him. Loud cries arise, but the contention is soon quelled, for the deep bass voice of the medicine-man is heard above theirs, and he says that the newly made widow, and she alone, shall start the blaze, and then all may join in adding fuel to the fire, and insult to the present disgrace of the Chippeway warrior. And now the brush is piled round the wood and touches the victim's feet, and the men lie still on the grass, knowing their work will be well done, and the women who are crowded together make a way for the widow to advance. See her! the tears are on her cheek, yet there is a smile of exultation too--the blood is streaming from her bosom and her arms. With her left hand she leads her young son forward. In her right she holds a large and flaming torch of pine. The red light of the burning wood contrasts strangely with the white light of the moon; the black smoke rises and is lost in the fleecy clouds that are flying through the air. The silence is broken only by the heart-breaking sobs of the Chippeway girl. The Sioux woman kneels, and carefully holds the torch under the brush and kindling-wood. She withdraws her hand, and soon there is something beside sobs breaking the stillness. The dry branches snap, and the women shout and laugh as they hear the crackling sound. The men join in a derisive laugh; but above all is heard the loud, full voice of the victim. His death-chaunt drowns all other sounds, yet there is not a tone of pain or impatience in the voice; it is solemn and dignified; there is even a note of rapture as he shouts defiance to his enemies and their cruelty. The dry twigs snap apart, and the smoke curls around the limbs of the prisoner: now the bright red flames embrace his form. The warrior is still; he is collecting his energies and challenging his powers of endurance. Chashé stood up. "My father," said he, "fled from the fire of the Chippeways; but you like the fire of the Dacotas, for you stand still." "The Sioux are great warriors," replied the Chippeway, "when they fight old men and children," looking at the same time towards his daughter. "But, is he an old man or a girl?" asked Chashé, pointing to the younger Chippeway. "He is a great warrior," said the father, "but he was one against many. He could not see his father and sister scalped before his eyes. Had he fought man to man he would have showed you the sharp edge of his tomahawk; but he is a Chippeway, and knows how to suffer and to die."