The Oneida village lay under the grey haze of a chill September night.

Once or twice a meteor flashed across the vault of heaven; and the

sharp, clear stars lighted with magic fires the pure crystals of the

first frost. The hoot of an owl rang out mournfully in answer to the

plaintive whine of the skulking panther. A large hut stood in the

center of the clearing. The panther whined again and the owl hooted.

The bear-skin door of the hut was pushed aside and a hideous face

peered forth. There was a gutteral call, and a prowling cur slunk in.

Within the hut, which was about twenty feet square, men, women and

children had packed themselves. The air was foul, and the smoke from

the blazing pine knots, having no direct outlet, rolled and curled and

sank. The savages sprawled around the fire, bragging and boasting and

lying as was their wont of an evening. Near-by the medicine man,

sorcerer so-called, beat upon a drum in the interest of science and

rattled bears' claws in a tortoise-shell. A sick man lay huddled in

skins at the farthest end of the hut. His friends and relatives gave

him scant attention. Indians were taught to scorn pity. Drawings on

the walls signified that this was the house of the Tortoise.

Four white men sat among them; sat doggedly in defeat. Gallantry is a

noble quality when joined to wisdom and foresight; alone, it leads into

pits and blind alleys. And these four men recognized with no small

bitterness the truth of this aphorism. They had been ambushed scarce

four hours from Quebec by a baud of marauding Oneidas. Only Jean

Pauquet had escaped. They had been captives now for several weeks.

Rage had begun to die out, fury to subside; apathy seized them in its

listless embrace. Heavy, unkempt beards adorned their faces, and their

hair lay tangled and matted upon their shoulders. They were all

pictures of destitution, and especially the whilom debonair poet. His

condition was almost pitiable. Some knavish rascal had thrust burdocks

into his hair and another had smeared his face with balsam sap. He had

thrashed one of these tormentors, and had been belabored in return. He

had by now grown to accept each new indignity with the same patient

philosophy which made the Chevalier and the vicomte objects of

admiration among the older redskin stoics. As for D'Hérouville, he had

lost but little of his fire, and flew into insane passions at times;

but he always paid heavily for the injuries which he inflicted upon his

tormentors. His wound, however, had entirely healed, and the color on

his cheeks was healthful. He would become a formidable antagonist

shortly. And there were intervals when the vicomte eyed him morosely.

The Chevalier completely ignored the count, either in converse or in

looks. D'Hérouville was not at all embarrassed. Rather it added to

the zest of this strange predicament in which they were placed. It was

a tonic to his superb courage to think that one day or another he must

fight and kill these three men or be killed himself.




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