historian piously remarks, "by God's assistance, to make a final
destruction of them," until finally a small but gallant band took refuge
in a swamp. Burning with indignation, and made sullen by dispair, with
hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their nation, and
spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they
refused to ask life at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death
to submission. As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dismal
retreat, volleys of musketry poured into their midst, until nearly all
were killed or buried in the mire. In the darkness of a thick fog which
preceded the dawn of day, a few broke through the ranks of the beseigers
and escaped to the woods.

Again, the same historian tells us that the few that remained, "stood
like sullen dogs to be killed rather than to implore mercy, and the
soldiers on entering the swamp, found many sitting together in groups,
when they approached, and resting their guns on the boughs of trees,
within a few yards of them, literally filled their bodies with bullets."
But they were Indians, and it was pronounnced a pious work. But when the
Gauls invaded Italy, and the Roman Senators, in their purple robes and
chairs of State, sat unmoved in the presence of barbarian conquerors,
disdaining to flee, and equally disdaining to supplicate for mercy, it
is applauded as noble, as dying like statesmen and philosophers. But the
Indians with far more to lose and infinitely greater provocation, sits
upon his mother earth upon the green mound, beneath the canopy of Heaven,
and refuses to ask mercy of civilized fiends, he is stigmatized as dogs,
spiritless, and sullen. What a different name has greatness, clothed in
the garb of christian princes and sitting beneath spacious domes, gorgeous
with men's device, and the greatness, in the simple garb of nature,
destitute and alone in the wilderness.