"But can he, M'sieu? Will they obey him?" "Not obey, exactly; he will not command them. Indians have no discipline such as ours. The chiefs rely on their judgment and influence. But they have followed the guidance of the Big Throat for too many years to leave it now." Another chief rose to speak. The sun had gone, and the long building was growing dark rapidly. A number of squaws came through the circle, throwing wood on the fires. The new flames shot up, and threw a flickering light on the copper faces, many of which still wore the paint of the morning. The smoke lay over them in wavering films, now and again half hiding some sullen face until it seemed to fade away into the darkness. At last the whole situation lay clear before the council. Some speakers were for war, some for peace, others for aiding the Senecas as a matter of principle. The house was divided. There was a silence, and the pipes glowed in the dusk; then the Long Arrow rose. The listless spectators stirred and leaned forward. The maid, too, was moved, feeling that at last the moment of decision was near. She was surprised to see that he had none of the savage excitement of the morning. He was as quiet and tactful in speech as the Big Throat himself. Slowly the Long Arrow drew his blanket close about him and began to speak. The house grew very still, for the whole tribe knew that he had, in his anger of the morning, disputed the authority of the Big Throat. There had been hot words, and the great chief had rebuked him contemptuously within the hearing of half a hundred warriors. Now he was to stand before the council, and not a man in that wide circle but wondered how much he would dare to say. He seemed not to observe the curious glances. Simply and quietly he began the narrative of the capture of the hunting party at Fort Frontenac. At the first words Menard turned to Father Claude with a meaning look. The maid saw it, and her lips framed a question. "It is better than I hoped," Menard whispered. "He is bringing it up himself." "Not two moons have waned," the Long Arrow was saying, "since five score brave young warriors left our village for the hunt. They left the hatchet buried under the trees. They took no war-paint. The Great Mountain had said that there was peace between the redman and the white man; he had asked the Onondagas to hunt on the banks of the Great River; he had told them that his white sons at the Stone House would take them as brothers into their lodges. When the Great Mountain said this, through the mouths of the holy Fathers, he lied." The words came out in the same low, even tone in which he had begun speaking, but they sank deep. The house was hushed; even the stirring of the children on the benches died away.