Prisoners of Chance

"Yet there are fates possible to a woman more to be dreaded than death."

"Ay, and frontier bred, I know it well, yet none so bad as would have been the knowledge that I was guilty of ingratitude. My life, my honor, are in the care of God, Geoffrey, and if I remain grateful for aught this day, it is that my shot proved timely, saving you from that blow. Tell me, was it not a woman at whose command the combat ceased?"

"It was; a white woman at that, unless my eyes deceived me. She stood on yonder point of rock, appearing a veritable queen in the sunshine."

"So I thought, a fair face enough, yet not devoid of savage cruelty. Her presence brings me some rays of hope, making me feel I may have less to fear in the future than you. If a woman, however debased and barbarous, rules these savages, she will not be altogether without heart to the supplications of a woman."

I felt less assured of this, yet it was better she be buoyed up by all possible hope, so ventured upon no answer. There was that in the Queen's face as she gazed down upon us that made me doubt her womanliness; doubt if behind that countenance of wild beauty there did not lurk a soul as savage and untamed as any among her barbarous followers. What but a spirit of insatiate cruelty could animate and control such fierce warriors in their battle rage? Thinking of this, my eyes on Madame, a movement occurred among our captors quickly challenging my attention. Fresh shouts and cries evidenced new arrivals. These came swarming down the ravine, and in another moment began crawling noisily about us, chattering with our surly captors, or scowling into our faces with savage eyes boding no good. It would be unjust were I to write that these fellows were a brutal lot, as such words would be void of that truth I seek to convey. I lived to learn that many among them had the stuff of which true men are made; yet, nevertheless, they were savages, scarcely touched by the virtues or vices of civilization, a people nursing within their memory a great wrong, and inflamed by the fierce passions of battle. Gazing about on the stiffening forms of their stricken warriors, all alike exhibited in eyes and gestures how eagerly they longed for the hour of vengeance, when implacable hate might have full vent in the unutterable agony of their victims. I gazed up into their scowling, distorted faces, imagining a final moment of reckoning was at hand; yet some authority, either of chief or tribal custom, restrained their pitiless hatred, reserving us for longer, more intense suffering.