They still lay where they had fallen—­the Indian sprawling in the middle of a black stain on the platform; Tole huddled on the bare earth of the quadrangle.  Ambrose’s heart sank at the thought of returning to Simon Grampierre with the gift of a dead son.

The Indians gave no regard to the bodies—­apparently they meant to leave them behind.  Ambrose with no uncertain gestures commanded Myengeen to have them taken up and carried to the boat.  It was done.

When they got down the bank out of sight of the house Myengeen and the others gave over their hollow pretense of enthusiasm at Ambrose’s release.

Thereafter none paid the least attention to him.

He saw that they had not only loaded the boat they came in, but on the principle of in for a penny, in for a pound, had also taken possession of one of the company york boats, and had loaded it to the gunwale.

They immediately embarked and pushed off.  Ambrose secured a place below Myengeen’s steering platform.  In the bottom of the boat, at his feet, lay the wizened Indian in his rags, and the straight, slim body of Tole—­side by side like brothers in a bed.

Tole’s face was not disfigured; serene, boyish, and comely, it gave Ambrose’s heart-strings a fresh wrench.  He covered them both with a piece of sail-cloth.

Across the river, as the Indians started to unload, Watusk came down to the beach, followed by several of his councilors.  It was impossible to tell from his inscrutable, self-important air what he thought of all this.

His flabby, yellow face changed neither at the sight of all the wealth they brought nor at the two dead men.  Ambrose demanded four men of him to carry Tole’s body to his father’s house.

Watusk kept him waiting while he listened to a communication from Myengeen.  Ambrose guessed that it had to do with himself, for both men glanced furtively at him.  Watusk finally turned away without having answered the white man.

Ambrose, growing red, imperiously repeated his demand.  Watusk, still without looking at him directly, spoke a word to some Indians within call, and Ambrose was immediately seized by a dozen hands.

He was finally bound hand and foot with thongs of hide.  This was no more than he expected, still he did not submit without a fierce but ineffectual struggle.

When it was done his captors looked on him with respect—­they did not laugh at him nor evince any anger.  It was impossible for him to read any clue in their stolid faces what was going forward.

Half a dozen of them carried him up the bank and laid him at the door of a teepee.  Presently Watusk passed by.  Ambrose so violently demanded an explanation that the Indian was forced to stop.  He said, still without meeting Ambrose’s eye: 

“Myengeen say you kill Tom Moosa.  You got to take our law.”

“It’s a lie!” cried Ambrose, suffocating with indignation.