By this time they were nearing the entrance of the council lodge; and Bradford continued: “There—we have safely run the gauntlet of scowling looks and threatening gestures. I feared we should not get through so easily. Now we’ll have an interview with Tenskwatawa. Oh! there he is.” In front of the council lodge stood the Prophet. He was alone. His head was bowed; his chin, buried in the folds of his buffalo-robe. He was a bronze statue of gloom—the personification of utter dejection. “Come,” whispered Bradford to Douglas. “Let’s hurry to him while he’s alone. Our safety depends upon our winning him to our side.” Ross hesitated and drew back. “Don’t be a fool!” Bradford hissed. “This is no time for squeamish notions of independence.” “But I hate him!” Douglas panted. “I would _kill_ him!” “Nevertheless,” was the unmoved reply, “he holds the winning cards, at present. Our lives are in his hands. No doubt the chief and his warriors have been to him. Come—and leave everything to me.” At that moment Tenskwatawa lifted his head and fixed his one eye upon them. A malicious smile flickered about the corners of his sensual mouth—and was gone. Again he was a graven image. Bradford was about to speak, when a gigantic Indian accompanied by a score of warriors unceremoniously elbowed him aside and stopped before the Prophet. The newcomer was Winnemac, the great Pottawatomie chief. His hands were clenched; his features, black with rage. The Prophet kept his gaze fixed upon the ground and gave no heed to the angry chief’s presence. “Tenskwatawa is a Shawnee squaw!” Winnemac thundered. “He promised us success; we received defeat. He said the palefaces were crazy; but they were in their senses, and fought like devils. He told us that we should rejoice over the destruction of the White Chief’s army; we mourn for our young men slain. He assured us that we should not taste death; we feasted upon it. Tecumseh is a brave warrior; Tenskwatawa is a squaw! See, braves! I spit upon him and slap his face!” And suiting the action to the words, the enraged chief spat upon the Prophet and dealt him a resounding slap upon the cheek. The assembled warriors yelled in derision. Scores of others, attracted by the uproar, came running to the spot. Bradford and Douglas found themselves in the center of a mob of hooting, gesticulating demons, ready to wreak their rage upon any object that offered. The two white men looked anxiously about them, but saw no way of escape. Tenskwatawa did not resent Winnemac’s insult. Instead, he lifted his hand to command silence; and, as soon as he could make himself heard, began meekly: “Tenskwatawa is no warrior—he is the Prophet of the Great Spirit. Tenskwatawa is no squaw, though he has borne the burdens of his people for many moons. The Great Spirit promised Tenskwatawa the victory, and he gave the message to his children. The Great Spirit did not lie——” “Tenskwatawa lied!” Winnemac shouted fiercely.