"And do the Mohawk chiefs listen to the words of Onontio?" asked Robert
anxiously.
Dayohogo did not reply at once. He looked at the green woods. Birds,
blue or gray or brown, were darting here and there in the foliage, and
his eye rested for a moment on a tiny wren.
"The voice of Onontio is the voice of a bird chattering in a tree," he
said. "In the day of my father's father's father the children of
Onontio, under Champlain, came with guns, which were strange to us, and
with presents they induced the Adirondack warriors to help them. They
came up the great lake which the white people call Champlain, then they
crossed to Ticonderoga, near the outlet of the lake, Saint Sacrement,
and fell upon two hundred warriors of the Ganeagaono, who then knew only
the bow and arrow and the war club, and slew many of them. It was four
generations ago, but we do not forget. Then when my father was a young
warrior Frontenac came with a host of white soldiers and the Canadian
Indians and killed the warriors and laid waste with fire the lands of
the Five Nations, now the Six.
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