“No!”—Contemptuously.—“The palefaces are cowards. They fear the wonderful power of Tenskwatawa—The Open Door.” The two guards lapsed into silence. Bright Wing cautiously arose to his feet and, dodging from cabin to cabin, made his way toward the center of the village. At last he reached a spot where he could look out upon the square in which stood the council lodge—the Prophet’s temple. The space was ablaze with fires and torches. A dense mass of savages, talking, whooping, and gesticulating, surged around the entrance to the lodge. Many different tribes were represented. The young Wyandot saw several members of his own tribe among the half-nude fanatics. Thinking, therefore, that his presence would not arouse suspicion, he resolved to mingle with the excited braves and learn what plans were afoot. Slowly he edged forward until he reached the outskirts of the crowd. Apparently no one took notice of him—all eyes were fixed upon the door of the council lodge. He elbowed his way into the surging mass and stood still—his finger upon the trigger of his rifle. The braves were in war-paint and feathers. All were fully armed. Shoulder to shoulder, stood Winnebago and Wyandot; cheek by jowl, were Shawnees and Pottawatomies. Suddenly a mighty shout went up from the savage horde. It was prolonged for several minutes. A thousand bronzed warriors bellowed themselves hoarse. They danced, and swayed, and gyrated. Squaws and children added their piercing treble to the thunderous bass of the men. “Tenskwatawa!” was the cry. Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the tumult subsided. Naught but the heavy breathing of the multitude could be heard. Bright Wing riveted his gaze upon the front of the council lodge. A procession was issuing from the doorway. First came a number of torchbearers, walking two abreast. They stepped apart on reaching the open air, to form an avenue through which passed a dozen forms fantastically clad and painted, making a hideous din by beating shallow drums and rattling strings of dried deer-hoofs. These were followed by a group of dignified chiefs in full war-dress. Last of all appeared a solitary figure, awful in its grotesqueness—the horrible vision of a nightmare. “Tenskwatawa!” was the whisper that arose. It began in the front rank of the crowd and ran toward the rear, until every pair of lips in the sea of faces was moving. “Tenskwatawa! The Open Door!” Then a deathlike hush fell upon them.