name alone created terror in any houses hold; in every pioneer's cabin it made
the children cry out in fear and paled the cheeks of the stoutest-hearted

wife.
It is difficult to conceive of a white man's being such a fiend in human

guise. The only explanation that can be given is that renegades rage against
the cause of their own blood with the fury of insanity rather than with the

malignity of a naturally ferocioustemper. In justice to Simon Girty it must
be said that facts not known until his death showed he was not so cruel and

base as believed; that some deeds of kindness were attributed to him; that he
risked his life to save Kenton from the stake, and that many of the terrible

crimes laid at his door were really committed by his savage brothers.
Isaac Zane suffered no annoyance at the hands of Cornplanter's braves until

the seventh day of his imprisonment. He saw no one except the squaw who
brought him corn and meat. On that day two savages came for him and led him

into the immense council-lodge of the Five Nations. Cornplanter sat between
his right-hand chiefs, Big Tree and Half Town, and surrounded by the other

chiefs of the tribes. An aged Indian stood in the center of the lodge and
addressed the others. The listening savages sat immovable, their faces as cold

and stern as stone masks. Apparently they did not heed the entrance of the
prisoner.

"Zane, they're havin' a council," whispered a voice in Isaac's ear. Isaac
turned and recognized Girty. "I want to prepare you for the worst."

"Is there, then, no hope for me?" asked Isaac.
"I'm afraid not," continued the renegade, speaking in a low whisper. "They

wouldn't let me speak at the council. I told Cornplanter that killin' you
might bring the Hurons down on him, but he wouldn't listen. Yesterday, in the

camp of the Delawares, I saw Col. Crawford burnt at the stake. He was a friend
of mine at Pitt, and I didn't dare to say one word to the frenzied Indians. I

had to watch the torture. Pipe and Wingenund, both old friends of Crawford,
stood by and watched him walk round the stake on the red-hot coals five

hours."
Isaac shuddered at the words of the renegade, but did not answer. He had felt

from the first that his case was hopeless, and that no opportunity for escape
could possibly present itself in such a large encampment. He set his teeth

hard and resolved to show the red devils how a white man could die.
Several speeches were made by different chiefs and then an impressive oration

by Big Tree. At the conclusion of the speeches, which were in an unknown
tongue to Isaac, Cornplanter handed a war-club to Half Town. This chief got

up, walked to the end of the circle, and there brought the club down on the
ground with a resounding thud. Then he passed the club to Big Tree. In a

solemn and dignified manner every chief duplicated Half Town's performance
with the club.

Isaac watched the ceremony as if fascinated. He had seen a war-club used in
the councils of the Hurons and knew that striking it on the ground signified

war and death.
"White man, you are a killer of Indians," said Cornplanter in good English.

"When the sun shines again you die."
A brave came forward and painted Isaac's face black. This Isaac knew to

indicate that death awaited him on the morrow. On his way back to his
prison-lodge he saw that a war-dance was in progress.

A hundred braves with tomahawks, knives, and mallets in their hands revere
circling round a post and keeping time to the low music of a muffled drum.

Close together, with heads bowed, they marched. At certain moments, which they
led up to with a dancing on rigid legs and a stamping with their feet, they

wheeled, and uttering hideous yells, started to march in the other direction.
When this had been repeated three times a brave stepped from the line,

advanced, and struck his knife or tomahawk into the post. Then with a loud
voice he proclaimed his past exploits and great deeds in war. The other

Indians greeted this with loud yells of applause and a flourishing of weapons.
Then the whole ceremony was gone through again.

That afternoon many of the Indians visited Isaac in his lodge and shook their
fists at him and pointed their knives at him. They hissed and groaned at him.

Their vindictive faces expressed the malignant joy they felt at the
expectation of putting him to the torture.

When night came Isaac's guards laced up the lodge-door and shut him from the
sight of the maddened Indians. The darkness that gradually enveloped him was a

relief. By and by all was silent except for the occasional yell of a drunken
savage. To Isaac it sounded like a long, rolling death-cry echoing throughout

the encampment and murdering his sleep. Its horrible meaning made him shiver
and his flesh creep. At length even that yell ceased. The watch-dogs quieted

down and the perfect stillness which ensued could almost be felt. Through
Isaac's mind ran over and over again the same words. His last night to live!

His last night to live! He forced himself to think of other things. He lay
there in the darkness of his tent, but he was far away in thought, far away in

the past with his mother and brothers before they had come to this
bloodthirsty country. His thoughts wandered to the days of his boyhood when he

used to drive the sows to the pasture on the hillside, and in his dreamy,
disordered fancy he was once more letting down the bars of the gate. Then he

was wading in the brook and whacking the green frogs with his stick. Old
playmates' faces, forgotten for years, were there looking at him from the dark

wall of his wigwam. There was Andrew's face; the faces of his other brothers;
the laughing face of his sister; the serene face of his mother. As he lay

there with the shadow of death over him sweet was the thought that soon he
would be reunited with that mother. The images faded slowly away, swallowed up

in the gloom. Suddenly a vision appeared to him. A radiant white light
illumined the lodge and shone full on the beautiful face of the Indian maiden

who had loved him so well. Myeerah's dark eyes were bright with an undying
love and her lips smiled hope.

A rude kick dispelled Isaac's dreams. A brawny savage pulled him to his feet
and pushed him outside of the lodge.

It was early morning. The sun had just cleared the low hills in the east and
its red beams crimsoned the edges of the clouds of fog which hung over the

river like a great white curtain. Though the air was warm, Isaac shivered a
little as the breeze blew softly against his cheek. He took one long look

toward the rising sun, toward that east he had hoped to see, and then
resolutely turned his face away forever.

Early though it was the Indians were astir and their whooping rang throughout
the valley. Down the main street of the village the guards led the prisoner,

followed by a screaming mob of squaws and young braves and children who threw
sticks and stones at the hated Long Knife.

Soon the inhabitants of the camp congregated on the green oval in the midst of
the lodges. When the prisoner appeared they formed in two long lines facing

each other, and several feet apart. Isaac was to run the gauntlet--one of the
severest of Indian tortures. With the exception of Cornplanter and several of

his chiefs, every Indian in the village was in line. Little Indian boys hardly
large enough to sling a stone; maidens and squaws with switches or spears;

athletic young braves with flashing tomahawks; grim, matured warriors swinging
knotted war clubs,--all were there in line, yelling and brandishing their

weapons in a manner frightful to behold.
The word was given, and stripped to the waist, Isaac bounded forward fleet as

a deer. He knew the Indian way of running the gauntlet. The head of that long
lane contained the warriors and older braves and it was here that the great

danger lay. Between these lines he sped like a flash, dodging this way and
that, running close in under the raised weapons, taking what blows he could on

his uplifted arms, knocking this warrior over and doubling that one up with a
lightning blow in the stomach, never slacking his speed for one stride, so

that it was extremely difficult for the Indians to strike him effectually.
Once past that formidable array, Isaac's gauntlet was run, for the squaws and

children scattered screaming before the sweep of his powerful arms.
The old chiefs grunted their approval. There was a bruise on Isaac's forehead

and a few drops of blood mingled with the beads of perspiration. Several lumps
and scratches showed on his bare shoulders and arms, but he had escaped any

serious injury. This was a feat almost without a parallel in gauntlet running.
When he had been tied with wet buckskin thongs to the post in the center of

the oval, the youths, the younger braves, and the squaws began circling round
him, yelling like so many demons. The old squaws thrust sharpened sticks,

which had been soaked in salt water, into his flesh. The maidens struck him
with willows which left red welts on his white shoulders. The braves buried

the blades of their tomahawks in the post as near as possible to his head
without actually hitting him.

Isaac knew the Indian nature well. To command the respect of the savages was
the only way to lessen his torture. He knew that a cry for mercy would only

increase his sufferings and not hasten his death,--indeed it would prolong