“Entrez.”  Opening the door, the two good priests walked in, and turned to look for seats.  Ah! what was the sight presented to them!  Eyes like those of wild beasts, aflame with hate and ferocity, gleamed at them from the gloom of the back portion of the room.  The priests were amazed.  They knew not what all this meant.  Then a wild shriek was given, and the chief cried, “Enemies to the red man, you have come to your doom.”  Then raising his rifle, he fired at Father Marchand.  The levelling of his rifle was the general signal.  A dozen other muzzles were pointed, and in a far briefer space of time than it takes to relate it, the two priests lay weltering in their blood, pierced each by half a dozen bullets.

“Clear away these corpses,” shouted the chief, “and be ready for the next.”  There was soon another knock at the door, and the same wolfish voice replied as before, saying,

“Entrez.”  This time a full, manly-looking young fellow, named Charles Gowan, opened the door and entered.  Always on the alert for Indian treachery, he had his suspicion now, before entering he suspected strongly that all was not right.  He had only reached the settlement that morning, and had he returned sooner he would have counselled the settlers to pay no heed to the invitation.  He was assured that several had already gone up to the pow-wow, so being brave and unselfish, he said,

“If there is any danger afoot, and my friends are at the meeting-lodge, that is the place for me, not here.”  He had no sooner entered than his worst convictions were realized.  With one quick glance he saw the bloodpools, the wolfish eyes, the rows of ready rifles.

“Hell hounds!” he cried, “what bloody work have you on hand?  What means this?” pointing to the floor.

“It means,” replied the chief, “that some of your pale-face brethren have been losing their heart’s blood there.  It also means that the same fate awaits you.”  Resolved to sell his life as dearly as lay in his power, he sprang forward with a Colt’s revolver, and discharged it twice.  One Indian fell, and another set up a cry like the bellowing of a bull.  But poor Gowan did not fire a third shot.  A tall savage approached him from behind, and striking him upon the head with his rifle-stock felled him to the earth.  Then the savages fired five or six shots into him as he lay upon the floor.  The body was dragged away and the blood-thirsty fiends sat waiting for the approach of another victim.  Half an hour passed, and no other rap came upon the door.  An hour went, and still no sound of foot-fall.  All this while the savages sat mute as stones, each holding his murderous rifle in readiness for instant use.