To-morrow we shall make the Wabash boil,
And beat its current, racing to Vincennes.

[_Exeunt all but_ TECUMSEH _and the_
PROPHET.]

PROPHET. I shall return unto our sacred lodge,
And there invoke the Spirit of the Wind
To follow you, and blow good tidings back.

TECUMSEH. Our strait is such we need the help of
heaven.
Use all your wisdom, brother, but--beware!
Pluck not our enterprise while it is green,
And breed no quarrel here till I return.
Avoid it as you would the rattling snake;
And, when you hear the sound of danger, shrink,
And face it not, unless with belts of peace.
White wampum, not the dark, till we can strike
With certain aim. Can I depend on you?

PROPHET. Trust you in fire to burn, or cold to freeze?
So may you trust in me. The heavy charge
Which you have laid upon my shoulders now
Would weigh the very soul of rashness down.

[_Exit the_ PROPHET.]

TECUMSEH. I think I can depend on him--I must!
Yet do I know his crafty nature well--