Unheeding the interruption, the Prophet continued: “The Great Spirit made no mistake; but Tenskwatawa blundered. He parted with his sign—his power. He gave it to the noble Winnemac, that he might lead his warriors to victory. Tenskwatawa robbed himself of his power—he was helpless. The noble Winnemac could make no use of the sign—he knew not the secret of its power. The battle was lost. Tenskwatawa blundered.” Grunts of approval followed this apparently frank confession. Seeing which, Winnemac cried sneeringly: “Tenskwatawa lost his power—and it is gone forever. He is a babbling papoose!” “Return to him his sign, and he will show the noble Winnemac that he is mistaken,” the Prophet returned quietly. “Take it!” sneered Winnemac, drawing the ring from his finger and contemptuously flinging it at the feet of its owner. Tenskwatawa secured the talisman and restored it to its accustomed place upon his right hand. Instantly a remarkable change took place in his aspect and demeanor. No longer was he a humble suppliant begging pardon for past mistakes. He proudly drew himself erect, his lips curling scornfully. The pupil of his eye contracted. The ring upon his finger scintillated in the rays of the morning sun. With a sinuous, snake-like movement, he glided to Winnemac’s side; and suddenly pushing the sparkling jewel before the startled chief’s eyes, hissed: “The sign—the power! Look—look! you cannot take your eyes from it!” Winnemac’s features froze—became rigid, expressionless. His eyeballs bulged from their sockets and remained fixed. The Prophet slowly waved his hand to and fro. The Pottawatomie’s head turned from side to side—his gaze followed the movements of the talisman. Faster and faster the Prophet’s hand flew. Then, of a sudden, he leaned forward and whispered in the chief’s ear: “You are drowsy. Sleep—sleep! Your limbs are heavy—feeble. Sleep—sleep!” Winnemac’s eyelids dropped; his frozen features thawed. He trembled, swayed—and sank upon the ground, a senseless clod. Tenskwatawa pointed his finger at the sleeping warrior and shouted triumphantly: “Look, children! Look upon the valiant Winnemac. He doubted my power, he spat upon me and defied me. See! he lies helpless at my feet. The Great Spirit willed it—and he sleeps. Awaken him, if you can. You cannot. The loudest thunder would not rouse him; the keenest torture would not cause him to stir. Thus will he sleep forever, unless the Great Spirit, through me, wills that he awake.” The assembled braves pressed forward and craned their necks, to gaze upon their vanquished chieftain. One look was sufficient. To their untutored minds, a miracle had been wrought. They surged backward—silent, awe-struck. “Listen!” screamed the Prophet, his countenance purple with rage and excitement. “My children, you have scoffed at my power. Shall I do with you as I have done with the great Winnemac? Shall I cast a spell upon you—shall I cause you to sleep forever?”