Prisoners of Chance

There was no halting him, yet even as he continued to pour forth fervent supplication, the warriors drew back from the dense circle pressing against the platform, taking solemn counsel together. Then the old war-chief advanced to the centre, pointing maliciously toward De Noyan and myself. I observed the Queen wave her hand in a gesture of apparent carelessness, and before I could clearly conjecture the full meaning of it, strong hands clutched us, and, in spite of struggles, we were dragged roughly back toward the shrouded entrance of the lodge. There was no shouting, no din of any kind to disturb the devotions of the Puritan, who prayed on with closed eyes and a vigor of utterance making mock of all other sound. Silently as they moved, it was nevertheless plain to be read in the grim, savage faces closing about us, that we were being driven forth to no scene of pleasure. Harshly did their gripping hands hustle us forward. The heavy mat shading the entrance was flung aside, and like the unexpected flight of an arrow, into the black gloom of the lodge, weirdly lighting up the wild faces, streamed the clear, white light of the dawn. Far off upon the highest summit of the yellow cliff there already rested the first rosy reflection of the rising sun. One shout rang discordant from the surprised throats of our captors; the brutal hands released their grasp, and De Noyan and myself sank back helpless upon the ground.