It was of an
intense, fiery color, and every Indian in that gloomy band knew
that it was Oghwaga, the great, the inviolate, the sacred, that
was burning, and that the men who were doing it were the white
frontiersmen, who, his red-coated allies had told him, would soon
be swept forever from these woods. And they were forced to stand
and see it, not daring to attack so strong and alert a force.
They sat there in the darkness among the trees, and watched the
column of fire grow and grow until it seemed to pierce the skies.
Timmendiquas never said a word. In his heart, Indian though he
was, he felt that the Iroquois had gone too far. In him was the
spirit of the farseeing Hiawatha. He could perceive that great
cruelty always brought retaliation; but it was not for him,
almost an alien, to say these things to Thayendanegea, the mighty
war chief of the Mohawks and the living spirit of the Iroquois
nation.
Thayendanegea sat on the stump of a tree blown down by winter
storms. His arms were folded across his breast, and he looked
steadily toward that red threatening light off there in the
south. Some such idea as that in the mind of Timmendiquas may
have been passing in his own.
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