They
were the mighty nation, the ever-victorious, the League of the
Ho-de-no-sau-nee, that had held at bay both the French and the
English since first a white man was seen in the land, and that
would keep back the Americans now.
Henry glanced at Timmendiquas. The nostrils of the great White
Lightning were twitching. The song reached to the very roots of
his being, and aroused all his powers. Like Thayendanegea, he
was a statesman, and he saw that the Americans were far more
formidable to his race than English or French had ever been. The
Americans were upon the ground, and incessantly pressed upon the
red man, eye to eye. Only powerful leagues like those of the
Iroquois could withstand them.
Thayendanegea sat down, and then there was another silence, a
period lasting about two minutes. These silences seemed to be a
necessary part of all Iroquois rites. When it closed two young
warriors stretched an elm bark rope across the room from east to
west and near the ceiling, but between the high chiefs and the
minor chiefs. Then they hung dressed skins all along it, until
the two grades of chiefs were hidden from the view of each other.
This was the sign of mourning, and was followed by a silence.
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