knew. Many thought the tomahawk.

That night the citizens of the little village of Pain Court, as St. Louis
was called, might have seen the sky reddened in the eastward. It was the
loom of many fires at Cahokia, and around them the chiefs of the forty
tribes--all save the three in durance vile--were gathered in solemn talk.
Would they take the bloody belt or the white one? No man cared so little
as the Pale Face Chief. When their eyes were turned from the fitful
blaze of the logs, the gala light of many candles greeted them. And
above the sound of their own speeches rose the merrier note of the
fiddle. The garrison windows shone like lanterns, and behind these
Creole and backwoodsman swung the village ladies in the gay French
dances. The man at whose bidding this merrymaking was held stood in a
corner watching with folded arms, and none to look at him might know that
he was playing for a stake.

The troubled fires of the Indians had died to embers long before the
candles were snuffed in the garrison house and the music ceased.

The sun himself was pleased to hail that last morning of the great
council, and beamed with torrid tolerance upon the ceremony of kindling
the greatest of the fires. On this morning Colonel Clark did not sit
alone, but was surrounded by men of weight,--by Monsieur Gratiot and
other citizens, Captain Bowman and the Spanish officers. And when at
length the brush crackled and the flames caught the logs, three of the
mightiest chiefs arose. The greatest, victor in fifty tribal wars, held
in his hand the white belt of peace. The second bore a long-stemmed pipe
with a huge bowl. And after him, with measured steps, a third came with
a smoking censer,--the sacred fire with which to kindle the pipe.
Halting before Clark, he first swung the censer to the heavens, then to