The glen was secluded, just suited to his purpose, which required time, and he did not wish the Frenchman, St.Luc, to come upon him suddenly, and interfere with the pleasure that he anticipated.
He was quite sure that the forest was empty of everything save themselves, though he heard again and for the third time the note of the bird, piercing and sweet, trilling among the bushes.
The warriors, knowing what was to be done, were doing it already, having piled many pieces of dead wood around the trunk of the lone tree in the center of the opening.

Two had cut shavings with their hunting knives, and one stood ready with flint and steel.
"Do you not tremble, Tayoga ?" asked the Ojibway.

"Many an old and seasoned warrior has not been able to endure the fire without a groan." "You shall not hear any groan from me," replied Tayoga, "because I shall not stand among the flames." "There is no way to escape them.

Even now the pile is built, and the warrior is ready with flint and steel to make the sparks." High, thrillingly sweet, came the voice of the bird in the bushes, and Tayoga suddenly leaped with all his might against the great chest of Tandakora.

Vast as was the strength of the Ojibway he was thrown from his feet by the violent and unexpected impact, and as he fell Tayoga, leaping lightly away, ran like a deer through the bushes.
The warriors in the valley uttered a shout, but the reply was a shattering volley, before which half of them fell.