Other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knives and tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derision from Isaac.  They left the weapons sticking in the post until round Isaac’s head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another.

“The White Eagle is tired of boys,” cried Isaac to a chief dancing near.  “What has he done that he be made the plaything of children?  Let him die the death of a chief.”

The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the prisoner.  Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn.  The prisoner’s proud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for his enemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red welts upon his clear white skin had won their hearts.

Not so with the braves.  Seeing that the pale face scorned all efforts to make him flinch, the young brave turned to Big Tree.  At a command from this chief the Indians stopped their maneuvering round the post and formed a large circle.  In another moment a tall warrior appeared carrying an armful of fagots.

In spite of his iron nerve Isaac shuddered with horror.  He had anticipated running the gauntlet, having his nails pulled out, powder and salt shot into his flesh, being scalped alive and a host of other Indian tortures, but as he had killed no members of this tribe he had not thought of being burned alive.  God, it was too horrible!

The Indians were now quiet.  Their songs and dances would break out soon enough.  They piled fagot after fagot round Isaac’s feet.  The Indian warrior knelt on the ground the steel clicked on the flint; a little shower of sparks dropped on the pieces of punk and then—­a tiny flame shot up, and slender little column of blue smoke floated on the air.

Isaac shut his teeth hard and prayed with all his soul for a speedy death.

Simon Girty came hurriedly through the lines of waiting, watching Indians.  He had obtained permission to speak to the man of his own color.

“Zane, you made a brave stand.  Any other time but this it might have saved you.  If you want I’ll get word to your people.”  And then bending and placing his mouth close to Isaac’s ear, he whispered, “I did all I could for you, but it must have been too late.”

“Try and tell them at Ft.  Henry,” Isaac said simply.

There was a little cracking of dried wood and then a narrow tongue of red flame darted up from the pile of fagots and licked at the buckskin fringe on the prisoner’s legging.  At this supreme moment when the attention of all centered on that motionless figure lashed to the stake, and when only the low chanting of the death-song broke the stillness, a long, piercing yell rang out on the quiet morning air.  So strong, so sudden, so startling was the break in that almost perfect calm that for a moment afterward there was a silence as of death.  All eyes turned to the ridge of rising ground whence that