“The black man has returned to the palefaces. I have put a spell upon him—he will perform his mission. Ere the turn of the night the great paleface chief will be in the spirit land, with his fathers. Then will fear seize upon his warriors. In the early morning, my children, you will fall upon them and destroy them. The Great Spirit has promised me the victory. Darkness will shelter the redmen—while a great light will reveal the palefaces. I have brewed a drink of which each of you shall sip—and shall not taste death. Bullets shall pass him by—and long knives shall refuse to harm him. The Great Spirit has promised—and I have told you. I have put a spell upon the palefaces. Already one-half of them are dead or crazy. The victory shall be yours—the Great Spirit has promised.” Again he paused, his one eye fixed upon the sea of dusky faces before him. The braves stood spellbound—awed to silence by his words and manner. Raising his voice to the highest pitch, he cried: “If there be a coward among you, let him eat dirt and stay with the squaws. I would lead you myself, but the Great Spirit forbids. But my power shall be with you—my sign shall accompany you. See!” Again he raised his right hand; and again the ring upon his finger scintillated dazzlingly. “The Sign of the Prophet! The Sign of the Prophet!” was the awe-stricken whisper of the multitude. “Listen!” shouted Tenskwatawa. “Three brave chiefs shall lead you—Winnemac, White Loon, and Stone-Eater. I have said that my sign shall go with you. So it shall. See! I place it upon the noble Winnemac’s finger. It shall bring you victory over our enemies. My children, I have spoken.” Wrapping the buffalo-skin closely around him, he descended the platform and re-entered the council lodge. The chiefs, musicians, and torchbearers followed him, in order. Then the pent enthusiasm of the warriors broke loose. They whooped, howled, and danced; they embraced each other and rolled over and over upon the ground. In a fanatical frenzy, they caught up burning firebrands and ran hither and thither. For several minutes pandemonium reigned. Bright Wing had learned all he desired. He turned to slip away unmolested, and had reached the edge of the crowd and was rapidly making his way toward the palisade, when he came face to face with a white man. The Wyandot uttered a grunt of surprise, as he recognized the form and features of Hiram Bradford. “Hello!” cried the latter. “Where are you running so fast, my red friend—and what are you doing here?” The young Indian haughtily drew himself erect and retorted: “Bright Wing among his people. What paleface scout do here.” “Good—very good!” Bradford chuckled huskily. “Well, I’ll answer your question, Wyandot, and then you shall answer mine. I’m here as an agent of the British, and I’m doing what I can to help your people to recover what belongs to them. Now, what are _you_ doing here?” “Bright Wing come help, too,” was the quick reply.