All day they pursued their dreary march, picking their way through vast morasses, skirting the borders of blue woodland lakes where the gray stork flapped heavily up from the reeds at their approach, or plunging into dark belts of woodland where it is always twilight, and where the falling of the wild chestnuts and the chatter of the squirrels a hundred feet above their heads were the only sounds which broke the silence.  Onega had the endurance of the Indians themselves, but Adele, in spite of her former journeys, was footsore and weary before evening.  It was a relief to De Catinat, therefore, when the red glow of a great fire beat suddenly through the tree-trunks, and they came upon an Indian camp in which was assembled the greater part of the war-party which had been driven from Sainte Marie.  Here, too, were a number of the squaws who had come from the Mohawk and Cayuga villages in order to be nearer to the warriors.  Wigwams had been erected all round in a circle, and before each of them were the fires with kettles slung upon a tripod of sticks in which the evening meal was being cooked.  In the centre of all was a very fierce fire which had been made of brushwood placed in a circle, so as to leave a clear space of twelve feet in the middle.  A pole stood up in the centre of this clearing, and something all mottled with red and black was tied up against it.  De Catinat stepped swiftly in front of Adele that she might not see the dreadful thing, but he was too late.  She shuddered, and drew a quick breath between her pale lips, but no sound escaped her.

“They have begun already, then,” said Onega composedly.  “Well, it will be our turn next, and we shall show them that we know how to die.”

“They have not ill-used us yet,” said De Catinat.  “Perhaps they will keep us for ransom or exchange.”

The Indian woman shook her head.  “Do not deceive yourself by any such hope,” said she.  “When they are as gentle as they have been with you it is ever a sign that you are reserved for the torture.  Your wife will be married to one of their chiefs, but you and I must die, for you are a warrior, and I am too old for a squaw.”

Married to an Iroquois!  Those dreadful words shot a pang through both their hearts which no thought of death could have done.  De Catinat’s head dropped forward upon his chest, and he staggered and would have fallen had Adele not caught him by the arm.

“Do not fear, dear Amory,” she whispered.  “Other things may happen but not that, for I swear to you that I shall not survive you.  No, it may be sin or it may not, but if death will not come to me, I will go to it.”

De Catinat looked down at the gentle face which had set now into the hard lines of an immutable resolve.  He knew that it would be as she had said, and that, come what might, that last outrage would not befall them.  Could he ever have believed that the time would come when it would send a thrill of joy through his heart to know that his wife would die?