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Is there a hell to him like this? A taunt more galling than the Huron's hiss? He—proud and scornful, he—who laughed at law, He—scion of the deadly Iroquois, He—the bloodthirsty, he—the Mohawk chief, He—who despises pain and sneers at grief, Here in the hated Huron's vicious clutch, That even captive he disdains to touch!

Captive! But never conquered; Mohawk brave Stoops not to be to any man a slave; Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors, The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe's shores. With scowling brow he stands and courage high, Watching with haughty and defiant eye His captors, as they council o'er his fate, Or strive his boldness to intimidate. Then fling they unto him the choice;

"Wilt thou Walk o'er the bed of fire that waits thee now— Walk with uncovered feet upon the coals, Until thou reach the ghostly Land of Souls, And, with thy Mohawk death-song please our ear? Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?"