It was a part of the local tradition of later years, that when Tecumseh called the Governor a liar, that quick as a flash he arose to his feet, drew his sword and was about to resent the insult, when his friends interfered and prevented the blow. This story seems improbable, from the fact that the Governor was aware that many unarmed citizens were present, and that any rash or inconsiderate action on his part would precipitate a conflict that could only end in blood and carnage. He knew, moreover, that Tecumseh, by all the rules of civilized intercourse, even among open belligerents, was entitled to protection while engaged in council, and it is not probable that as brave a man as Harrison would violate these rules by becoming the aggressor. Instead, by quick word of command, he recalled the excited chief to his senses, dismissed him at once, and averted a catastrophe. In the solitude of his camp that evening Tecumseh was forced to acknowledge defeat. The young Governor instead of quailing had remained firm--it was plain that he was the chosen plenipotentiary of his government in all the treaties that had been effected. Moreover, in his reply, the Governor had not only emphatically repudiated all insinuations of unfairness toward the red man, but he had put the chief himself on the defensive by showing that he was an interloper who sought to control the rightful possessions of others. At last, it was the stolid savage who lost his self control, and the Governor, who by his respect for the laws of the council fire had brought the flush of shame to the chieftain's cheek. That night, as he afterwards admitted at Fort Meigs, he felt a rising respect in his breast for the first magistrate of the territory. He was doomed in after years to associate with the cowardly and contemptible Proctor, whom he called a "miserable old squaw," but from the day of this council he paid the involuntary tribute to Harrison that one brave man always pays to another, though ranged on a hostile side.