“I will therefore respectfully ask the indulgence of the court,” Denholm went on, “and move to reopen the taking of testimony.”

“Proceed,” said the judge.

A court attendant led Colina to the witness stand.  She was sworn.  Judge, lawyers, and spectators alike searched her grave, composed face for some suggestion of what she had to say.  Nothing was to be read there.

“Miss Gaviller,” said Denholm, “I can only ask you to tell in your own words all that you know bearing on the offenses with which Ambrose Doane is charged.”

“My father, Mr. Macfarlane, Dr. Giddings have all testified, I suppose,” said Colina.  “They can tell you as much or more than I can.  I have come to tell you of things that happened after his arrest, after all the others went out of the country.”

Every one connected with the case sat up.  Denholm’s eye brightened.

“Please go on,” he said and sat down.

Colina, in a low, steady voice, commenced her story at the point where Ambrose had asked her to find some one to go in search of Nesis.

While she spoke her grave eyes were brooding over the prisoner’s bent, dark head below.  He dared not look at her.  The court-room was so still that when she paused for a word one could hear the clock on the wall tick.

She told of her journey to the Kakisa River; her interview with Sergeant Plaskett (which provoked a smile); her search among the teepees; her encounter with Marya, and all that followed on that.

Without a trace of self-consciousness she told how she and Cora had set off at night on the unknown trail, and how she had ridden into the middle of the hostile village next day and demanded Nesis.

“Two girls to defy a whole tribe of redskins!”—­the thought could be read in the jurymen’s startled eyes.

The twelve men hung out of the box, listening with parted lips.  All that had gone before in this startling trial was nothing to Colina’s story.

When Colina came to her meeting with Nesis her brave port was shaken.  Her voice began to tremble.  She could not bring herself to name the dreadful thing.  The judge, perceiving a stoppage in her story, interrupted her.

“Miss Gaviller, if the girl could understand you, why did she answer by signs?”

Colina lowered her head.  Those near saw her struggling to control a shaken breast, saw two tears steal down her pale cheeks.

“Do you wish to be excused?” asked the judge solicitously.

She shook her head.  “One moment,” she was understood to whisper.

An attendant handed up a glass of water.

She finally managed to produce her voice again.  “She could not speak,” she said very low.

“Why?” asked the judge.  One would have said the whole room breathed the question.

“They—­had mutilated her,” whispered Colina.  “Her—­her tongue—­was cut off.”