He wore a peculiar necklace which seemed to De Catinat to consist of blackened bean pods set upon a string.  As he stooped over it he saw to his horror that they were not bean pods, but withered human fingers.

“They are all right fore-fingers,” said Du Lhut, “so everyone represents a life.  There are forty-two in all.  Eighteen are of men whom he has slain in battle, and the other twenty-four have been taken and tortured.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because only eighteen have their nails on.  If the prisoner of an Iroquois be alive, he begins always by biting his nails off.  You see that they are missing from four-and-twenty.”

De Catinat shuddered.  What demons were these amongst whom an evil fate had drifted him?  And was it possible that his Adele should fall into the hands of such fiends?  No, no, surely the good God, for whose sake they had suffered so much, would not permit such an infamy!  And yet as evil a fate had come upon other women as tender as Adele—­upon other men as loving as he.  What hamlet was there in Canada which had not such stories in their record?  A vague horror seized him as he stood there.  We know more of the future than we are willing to admit, away down in those dim recesses of the soul where there is no reason, but only instincts and impressions.  Now some impending terror cast its cloud over him.  The trees around, with their great protruding limbs, were like shadowy demons thrusting out their gaunt arms to seize him.  The sweat burst from his forehead, and he leaned heavily upon his musket.

“By Saint Eulalie,” said Du Lhut, “for an old soldier you turn very pale, monsieur, at a little bloodshed.”

“I am not well.  I should be glad of a sup from your cognac bottle.”

“Here it is, comrade, and welcome!  Well, I may as well have this fine scalp that we may have something to show for our walk.”  He held the Indian’s head between his knees, and in an instant, with a sweep of his knife, had torn off the hideous dripping trophy.

“Let us go!” cried De Catinat, turning away in disgust.

“Yes, we shall go!  But I shall also have this wampum belt marked with the totem of the Bear.  So!  And the gun too.  Look at the ‘London’ printed upon the lock.  Ah, Monsieur Green, Monsieur Green, it is not hard to see where the enemies of France get their arms.”

So at last they turned away, Du Lhut bearing his spoils, leaving the red grinning figure stretched under the silent trees.  As they passed on they caught a glimpse of the lad lying doubled up among the bushes where he had fallen.  The pioneer walked very swiftly until he came to a little stream which prattled down to the big river.  Here he slipped off his boots and leggings, and waded down it with his companions for half a mile or so.

“They will follow our tracks when they find him,” said he, “but this will throw them off, for it is only on running water that an Iroquois can find no trace.  And now we shall lie in this clump until nightfall, for we are little over a mile from Port Poitou, and it is dangerous to go forward, for the ground becomes more open.”