THE STRONGHOLD OF THE NATCHEZ

We were hopelessly prisoners.  On my part further struggle had become impossible, nor elsewhere did any effort last long, although Cairnes had to be knocked insensible before the heathen finally mastered him.  I believed the obstinate fellow dead, so ghastly white appeared his usually florid face as the victorious savages dragged him roughly past where I lay, flinging his heavy body down like carrion upon the rocks.  De Noyan appeared badly cut, his gallant clothing clinging to him in fluttering rags, silent witnesses to the manliness of his struggle.  Yet the Chevalier was far from done.

“Let me sit up, you villains!” he cried, vigorously kicking at a passing shin. “’T is not my custom to lie with head so low.  Ah, Benteen,” he smiled pleasantly across at me, his eyes kindling at the recollection, “that was the noblest fighting that ever came my way, yet ’tis likely we shall pay well for our fun. Sacre! ’t is no pleasant face, that of their grim war-chief, nor one to inspire a man with hope as he makes plea for mercy.”

“Marry, no,” I replied, determined on exhibiting no greater outward concern than he.  “Nor will the ugly clip on his shoulder leave his humor happier.”

The Chevalier’s eyes danced at the recollection.

“’T was our preacher friend who sheared him.  I hold it a master-stroke; but for a spear-butt on the way it would have cleft the fellow into two equal parts.  Have you seen aught of Eloise since the fight?”

“She lies yonder against the wall at my left, and remains unhurt, I think.  I will make effort to turn over, and have speech with her.”

So securely had I been bound with coarse grass rope, I found it no small task to change the position of my body sufficiently to peer about the corner of intervening rock, and clearly perceive my lady.  She was reclining in a half sitting posture well within the darker shadow, bound as were the rest of us.

“You remain uninjured, I trust, Madame?” I asked gently, and it heartened me to observe the smile with which she instantly glanced up at sound of my voice.

“No blow has touched me,” was her immediate response, “yet I suffer noticing the stains of blood disfiguring both you and my husband.  Are the wounds serious ones?”

“Nay, mere scratches of the flesh, to heal in a week.  Why did you waste your last shot on that savage who would have struck me?  It was not the will of De Noyan that it be expended thus.”

“You must have formed a poor conception of me, Geoffrey Benteen,” she answered, as if my words pained her, “if you suppose I value my life more highly than your own.  But for my solicitation you would never have been in such stress, and, whatever else may be true, Eloise de Noyan is not one accustomed to deserting her friends.”

“Yet there are fates possible to a woman more to be dreaded than death.”