copper-colored gods never flinched, never faltered. Their weak and
their feeble were saved. What mattered to them such a little thing
as death?

"The released captives were quickly surrounded by their own people,
but the flower of their splendid nation was in the hands of their
enemies, those valorous young men who thought so little of life that
they willingly, gladly laid it down to serve and to save those they
loved and cared for. Amongst them were war-tried warriors who had
fought fifty battles, and boys not yet full grown, who were drawing
a bow-string for the first time; but their hearts, their courage,
their self-sacrifice were as one.

"Out before a long file of southern warriors they stood. Their
chins uplifted, their eyes defiant, their breasts bared. Each
leaned forward and laid his weapons at his feet, then stood erect,
with empty hands, and laughed forth his challenge to death.
A thousand arrows ripped the air, two hundred gallant northern
throats flung forth a death cry exultant, triumphant as conquering
kings--then two hundred fearless northern hearts ceased to beat.

"But in the morning the southern tribes found the spot where they
fell peopled with flaming fire-flowers. Dread terror seized upon
them. They abandoned the island, and when night again shrouded
them they manned their canoes and noiselessly slipped through the
Narrows, turned their bows southward, and this coast-line knew
them no more."

"What glorious men!" I half whispered as the chief concluded the
strange legend.