“’Praise be to the chiefs of the Beard,
  Who knew how to avenge their old ancestral injury,
  When with the sweet blood of a white foe
  Their black beards they proudly dyed red.’

“Let there be joy in the hearts of the Natchez.  When I saw the glorious light of day there was born to them a great warrior of the race of their Suns—­a warrior and a chief with a beard on his chin.  The pledge of protection, of safety, and of glory stood embodied in me.  When I shouted my first war-whoop the owl hooted and smelt the ghosts of my enemies, the wolves howled, and the carrion vultures shrieked with joy; for they knew their food was coming, and I fed them with Chickasaws’ flesh and with Choctaws’ flesh until they were gorged with the flesh of the red man.  A kind master and purveyor I was to them—­the poor, dumb creatures that I loved.  But lately I have given them more dainty food.  I boast of having done better than my father.  Five Frenchmen have I killed, and my only regret in dying is, that it will prevent me from killing more.

  “’Ha! ha! ha! that was game worthy of the chief of the Beard! 
  How lightly he danced.  Ho! ho! ho! 
  How gladly he shouted.  Ha! ha! ha! 
  Each time with French blood his beard became red.”

“Sorrow in the hearts of the Natchez!  The great hunter is no more.  The wise chief is going to meet his fathers.  The indomitable warrior will no more raise his hatchet in defence of the children of the Sun.  O burning shame!  He was betrayed by his brother-chiefs, who sold his blood.  If they had followed his advice they would have united with the Choctaws, Chickasaws, and all the other red nations, and they would have slain all the French dogs that came prowling and stealing over the beautiful face of our country.  But there was too much of the woman in their cowardly hearts.  Well and good!  Let the will of fate be accomplished.  The white race will soon resume the blood which it gave, and then the glory and the very existence of the Natchez nation will have departed forever with the chief of the Beard; for I am the last of my race, and my blood flows in no other human veins.  O Natchez, Natchez! remember the prophet’s voice!  I am content to die; for I leave no one behind me but the doomed, while I go to revel with my brave ancestors.

  “’They will recognize their son in the chief of the Beard;
  They will welcome him to their glorious homestead
  When they see so many scalps at his girdle,
  And his black beard with French blood painted red.’”

He stood up in proud defiance before the admiring French; his noble form expanded to its full proportions, hatred in his heart and triumph in his eyes.  Facing his foes, he viewed the platoon selected to deal him his death, and lifted his eyes and hands to the sun.  The officer gave the command, the platoon fired as one man, and the great chief of the Beard passed away.