I had no means of telling how long I lay thus, close against the north wall of the building in that very posture in which I had first fallen.  It must have been after hours of unconsciousness I was at last partially aroused by the reviving touch of cool water with which my face was being bathed.  As I slowly unclosed my heavy eyes the huge smouldering log in the centre of the room burst into sudden flame, lighting the interior, casting weird, dancing shadows along the black walls, its red radiance falling upon the face bending above me, and permitting me to look into the dark, troubled eyes of Eloise de Noyan.

“There is no necessity for moving,” she explained softly.  “Nothing of moment has occurred since you fell asleep, except that the savages brought us food.”

“Have you been watching over me all this time without rest?”

“Nay; at least no more over you than the others,” she answered with a smile, “yet you appeared in greatest stress.  The others have been some time awake and have partaken of food while you remained in stupor.  Do not look at me like that!  I am not tired; I was borne all the way upon a litter, never once placing foot upon the ground.”

“Have you knowledge as to the hour?”

“Only that it must be well into the night.”

I lifted my body into a more erect posture, finding myself stiff and sore from head to foot, and glanced curiously around our prison-house.  In the centre was the blazing log, the sole bit of color my eyes could perceive.  Kneeling upon either side were the motionless figures of four priests, robed from head to foot in black, their faces, darkened by some pigment, appearing ghastly and repulsive under the flickering flame.  Their lips muttered in monotonous chant a weird incantation which sent to my heart a chill of superstitious dread.  High above the altar, blackened by the constantly ascending cloud of smoke, swayed uneasily a peculiar graven image of wood, hideous in disfigurement of form and diabolical of visage, appearing to float upon outspread wings, and gloating down upon us through eyes glittering ominously in the fire sheen.  At either extremity of the apartment, where I supposed were the entrance and exit previously noted, stood those savages remaining on guard, grim, naked fellows, whose restless eyes, gleaming in the glow, followed our slightest movements, and whose weapons were constantly uplifted as though they longed for some excuse to strike.  It composed a grewsome scene, savage, cruel, devilish, exhibiting within its gloomy outlines small promise for the morrow.

The old Puritan was leaning heavily against a small stake driven into the earth, resting his aching head upon one hand as he peered at me from beneath thatched brows.

“You have a white face, Master Benteen,” he ventured, wondrously soft spoken for him, “yet if the heart remain strong and at peace with God, the body will mend itself.”