She said calmly: "It is true, my brother. Skenandoa has painted himself in red. And when your General Herkimer rides into battle, on his right hand rides Skenandoa; and on his left hand rides Thomas Spencer, the Oneida interpreter!"[11] [Footnote 11: This was a true prophecy for it happened later at Oriskany.] Tahioni said solemnly: "And before them rides the Holder of Heaven. We Oneidas can not doubt it. Is it true, my sister?" The girl answered: "The Holder of Heaven has flung a red wampum belt between Oneida and Canienga! Five more red belts remain in his hand. They are so brightly red that even the Senecas can see the colour of these belts from the Western Gate of the Long House." There was a silence; then I chose De Luysnes and Kwiyeh to relieve our sentinels, and went north with them along the starlit trail. When I returned with Hanoteh and Godfrey Shew, the Oneidas were still sitting up in their blankets, and the Frenchmen lay on theirs, listening to Nick, who had pulled his fife from his hunting shirt and was trilling the air of the Little Red Foot while Joe de Golyer sang the words of the endless and dreary ballad--old-time verses, concerning bloody deeds of the Shawanese, Western Lenape, and French in '56, when blood ran from every creek and man, woman and child went down to death fighting. I hated the words, but the song had ever haunted me with its quaint and sad refrain: "Lord Loudon he weareth a fine red coat, And red is his ladye's foot-mantelle; Red flyeth ye flagge from his pleasure-boat, And red is the wine he loves so well: But, oh! for the dead at Minden Town,-- Naked and bloody and black with soot, Where the Lenni-Lenape and the French came down To paint them all with the Little Red Foot!" "For God's sake, quit thy piping, Nick," said I, "and let us sleep while we may, for we move again at dawn." At which Nick obediently tucked away his fife, and de Golyer, who had a thin voice like a tree-cat, held his songful tongue; and presently we all lay flat and rolled us in our blankets. The night was still, save for a love-sick panther somewhere on the mountain, a-caterwauling under the June stars. But the distant and melancholy love-song and the golden melody of the stream pouring through its bowlders blended not unpleasantly in my ears, and presently conspired to lull me into slumber. * * * * * The mountain peaks were red when I awoke and spoke aloud to rouse my people. One by one they sat up, owlish with sleep, yet soon clearing their eyes and minds with remembering the business that lay before us. I sent Joe de Golyer and Tahioni to relieve our sentinels, Luysnes and the Screech-owl.