TECUMSEH. Their crimes are great -
Our wrongs unspeakable! yet my revenge
Is open war. It never shall be said
Tecumseh's hate went armed with cruelty.
There's reason in revenge; but spare our own!
These gloomy sacrifices sap our strength;
And henceforth from your wizard scrutinies
I charge you to forbear. But who's the white
You hold as captive?

PROPHET. He is called LEFROY -
A captive, but too free to come and go.
Our warriors struck his trail by chance, and found
His tent close by the Wabash, where he lay
With sprained ankle, foodless and alone.
He had a book of pictures with him there
Of Long-Knife forts, encampments and their chiefs -
Most recognizable; so, reasoning thence,
Our warriors took him for a daring spy,
And brought him here, and tied him to the stake.
Then he declared he was a Saganash -
No Long-Knife he! but one who loved our race,
And would adopt our ways - with honeyed words,
Couched in sweet voice, and such appealing eyes
That Iena, our niece - who listened near -
Believing, rushed, and cut him from the tree.
I hate his smiles, soft ways, and smooth-paced tread,
And would, ere now, have killed him but for her;
For ever since, unmindful of her race,
She has upheld him, and our matrons think
That he has won her heart.

TECUMSEH. But not her hand! This cannot be, and I must
see to it:
Red shall not marry white - such is our law.
But graver matters are upon the wing,
Which I must open to you. Know you, then,
The nation that has doomed our Council-Fires -
Splashed with our blood - will on its Father turn,
Once more, whose lion-paws, stretched o'er the sea,
Will sheathe their nails in its unnatural tides,
Till blood will flow, as free as pitch in spring,
To gum the chafed seams of our sinking bark.
This opportunity, well-nursed, will give
A respite to our wrongs, and heal our wounds;
And all our nations, knit by me and ranged
In headship with our Saganash allies,
Will turn the mortal issue 'gainst our foes,
And wall our threatened frontiers with their slain.
But till that ripened moment, not a sheaf
Of arrows should be wasted, not a brave
Should perish aimlessly, nor discord reign
Amongst our tribes, nor jealousy distrain
The large effects of valour. We must now
Pack all our energies. Our eyes and ears
No more must idle with the hour, but work
As carriers to the brain, where we shall store,
As in an arsenal, deep schemes of war!

[A noise and shouting without.]

But who is this?

[Enter_ BARRON accompanied and half-dragged by
warriors. The PROPHET goes forward to meet
him._]

BARRON. I crave protection as a messenger
And agent sent by General Harrison.
Your rude, unruly braves, against my wish,
Have dragged me here as if I were a spy.

PROPHET. What else!
Why come you here if not a spy?
Brouillette came, and Dubois, who were spies -
Now you are here. Look on it! There's your grave.