He begged of the commanding officer to be shot at once, deprecating the thought of imprisonment--only let him die or be free. It was in vain to remind him of his offences: the laws of the white man were not for him. He then said that he wished to see his wives. The request was granted: they were sent for, and after a little while they, trembling with fear, passed the terrible-looking guard and entered their husband's cell, with their faces covered with their blankets. The next day a council was held at the council-house, and I could not resist the wish I had to be present. I longed to see the aborigines of my country presiding as it were in their own halls of legislature. There was always a charm and freshness in listening to their unstudied eloquence. When I reached the council-house the speaking was nearly over, but the scene repaid me for the trouble I had taken to witness it. The warriors were seated in rows round the room on the floor, with the exception of Wabashaw, Many Lightnings, and a few of the principal men,--these occupied a bench. Their dresses were very rich; their fans were of large feathers, stained in many colours. "The Owl" was looking grave, for he had been reproved for interfering with the soldiers, by attempting to cut the prisoner's straps. One old man was in mourning, and he looked particularly _en dishabille_, his clothing (and there was little of it) was dirty in the extreme. His face he had painted perfectly black; his hair he had purposely disarranged, to the greatest degree. Thus he presented a striking contrast to the elaborately adorned warriors around him. Many Lightnings was dressed with scrupulous care. He had been presented with an old uniform-coat, which he wore with the utmost complacency. We noticed the warriors were almost all young: we asked where were all their old men. Wabashaw said, they were all carried off by the small-pox, which had nearly destroyed their band some years before. Several of them, besides the chief, were deeply marked from this disease. When we left Fort Snelling, Fire-face was still in confinement, but was soon to go to Dubuque for trial. I learned some months after, that he had escaped: I thought then, his long-cherished wish might still be gratified. DEATH-SONG OF AN INDIAN PRISONER, FOR A LONG TIME CONFINED AT FORT SNELLING. BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN. Here, in these hated walls A prisoner I; Vainly my young wife calls, As night-winds sigh. Brightly the white stars shine: Upwards I gaze, Seeking this soul of mine From earth to raise. Strong Wind, my comrade brave, Looks sternly by, Watching the death-film dim His brother's eye. Chained are these useless hands; Cold is my heart; Soon to the spirits' land Must I depart.