The sun sank upon a rejoicing army.  The Indians were still yelling and dancing, and, though they were no longer allowed to sink their tomahawks in the heads of their defenseless foes, they made imaginary strokes with them, and shouted ferociously as they leaped and capered.

Robert was on the strand near the shore of the lake, and wearied by his long day of watching that which he wished least in the world to see, he sat down on a sand heap, and put his head in his hands.  Peculiarly sensitive to atmosphere and surroundings, he was, for the moment, almost without hope.  But he knew, even when he was in despair, that his courage would come back.  It was one of the qualities of a temperament such as his that while he might be in the depths at one hour he would be on the heights at the next.

Several of the Indians, apparently those who had got at the liquor, were careering up and down the sands, showing every sign of the blood madness that often comes in the moment of triumph upon savage minds.  Robert raised his face from his hands and looked to see if Tandakora was among them, but he caught no glimpse of the gigantic Ojibway.  The French soldiers who were guarding the prisoners gazed curiously at the demoniac figures.  They were of the battalions Bearn and Guienne and they had come newly from France.  Plunged suddenly into the wilderness, such sights as they now beheld filled them with amazement, and often created a certain apprehension.  They were not so sure that their wild allies were just the kind of allies they wanted.

The sun set lower upon the savage scene, casting a dark glow over the ruined forts, the troops, the leaping savages and the huddled prisoners.  One of the Indians danced and bounded more wildly than all the rest.  He was tall, but slim, apparently youthful, and he wore nothing except breech cloth, leggings and moccasins, his naked body a miracle of savage painting.  Robert by and by watched him alone, fascinated by his extraordinary agility and untiring enthusiasm.  His figure seemed to shoot up in the air on springs, and, with a glittering tomahawk, he slew and scalped an imaginary foe over and over again, and every time the blade struck in the air he let forth a shout that would have done credit to old Stentor himself.  He ranged up and down the beach, and presently, when he was close to Robert, he grew more violent than ever, as if he were worked by some powerful mechanism that would not let him rest.  He had all the appearance of one who had gone quite mad, and as he bounded near them, his tomahawk circling about his head, the French guards shrank back, awed, and, at the same time, not wishing to have any conflict with their red allies, who must be handled with the greatest care.

The man paused a moment before the young prisoner, whirled his tomahawk about his head and uttered a ferocious shout.  Robert looked straight into the burning eyes, started violently and then became outwardly calm, though every nerve and muscle in him was keyed to the utmost tension.  “To the lake!” exclaimed the Indian under his breath and then he danced toward the water.