The grotesque figure was that of the Prophet. He ascended a small platform to the right of the door of the council lodge, and stood looking out over the heads of torchbearers, musicians, and chiefs. The glare of blazing torches fell upon him. A buffalo-robe enveloped his body. The horns surmounted his head and gave him a demoniac aspect. The tail of the animal, whose skin he had assumed, trailed upon the ground behind him. His hideous, repellent face—in which shrewdness, avarice, and cruelty were reflected—was striped and smeared with black and yellow paints. From nose and ears depended large silver crescents; and around his neck was a string of bears’-claws. His one eye twinkled balefully. For a full minute he stood with folded arms. Then he slowly raised his right hand toward the black heavens. As he did so, a ring upon his index finger caught the rays of the red and smoking torches and emitted a fitful stream of sparkles. “The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” wailed and sobbed the throng of savages. Many of them prostrated themselves to the earth, some in convulsions—frothing at the mouth and gibbering incoherently; others in a state of cataleptic rigidity—their eyes wide open and staring, their limbs immovably fixed. The Prophet’s lips moved; but no words came forth. He was praying. At last he dropped his arm to a horizontal position, and, slowly and impressively moving his hand from side to side, began in low-pitched, resonant tones: “Arise, children. I come to you with a message from the Great Spirit.” The groveling braves got upon their feet, and, leaning forward, listened eagerly to every word that fell from his lips. He continued: “The forests and streams belong to the redmen. The Great Spirit gave them to his wild children. The palefaces have stolen our lands. The Great Spirit is displeased with his children that they have tamely submitted. All this you have heard before. The time has come for action. You must strike a blow to recover your own. The palefaces are without the gates. They come to take from us the little we have left. This is holy ground—the feet of our enemies shall not defile it. They come at a time when your great leader—the noble Tecumseh—is absent. They think to force you to submit to their propositions. They demand a council. We have promised to meet them. But we shall meet them to-night—not to-morrow. We shall take with us the _tomahawk_—not the _peace-pipe_. Our guns shall speak for us. My children, the Great Spirit sends you this message.” Tenskwatawa paused to note the effect of his words. The warriors silently gripped their weapons and, with blazing eyes, waited for him to proceed. Pitching his voice in a higher key, he resumed: