One followed another, no doubt in accordance with rank.  Those chiefs upon the platform spoke first, each in turn seeming to pronounce against us in favor of that same unknown fate, making use of those two words, gesticulating toward us as they gave judgment.  Nowhere amid all that vengeful black circle did I discern a single face not set in savage hatred, while slowly at first, but gathering force as it proceeded, there passed from lip to lip the sullen murmur of that dread word “ca-tah.”  As it was pronounced each voter pointed at us, three times making repetition of the word, until the last warrior had spoken, and we knew that our doom had been formally pronounced by a tribunal knowing no mercy, from whose decision there was no appeal.

No hapless prisoner confined, as I have read they were in olden times, within a dungeon whose walls slowly closed to crush him into pulp, could have seen the coming of death, resistless and horrible, with clearer vision than was ours as that group of savages pronounced our doom.  It was by exercising the greatest effort of will that I conquered the dread sense of utter hopelessness which seemed to numb my every faculty; for, although I was to be tortured to the end, and perish at last in utmost physical agony, yet before that moment came there still remained a duty to be performed for one I loved.  For that I must retain mind and strength to act like a man.

Slowly, cautiously, moving inch by inch across the small space intervening, so as not to attract the attention of our guard, I crept forward, pausing at last close beside Madame.  Even as I reached her the final warrior cast his useless vote with the others, the excited concourse voicing appreciation in noisy acclaim.  I bent low, trembling from weakness, until my lips were close to her ear.

“Eloise,” I whispered softly, forgetting at the awful moment that she possessed another name, “it has been voted that three of us perish by torture, but you are not in the list; you are named for a different fate.  Is it still your wish that I fulfil the pledge?”

As she glanced up, the old war-chief pointed directly toward her.  I could perceive the baleful gleam of his eyes, and noted with what quick aversion she shrank back until her shoulder pressed my own.

“Yes, Geoffrey Benteen,” she made immediate, resolute answer.  “It will be mercy.  I beg you strike.”

“You forgive the blow?”

“Forgive!” An instant her clear eyes, unfrightened, looked directly into mine, a message in their depths I had never seen there before.  “More, I love the heart and hand which speed it.”