He yielded, ungraciously enough, to my command, giving so good a turn to the steel with his vice-like fingers that in another moment the Jesuit was released from the wall.  Slowly and painfully, clinging fast to my hand for aid, the man arose and stood before us, swaying wearily, his thin lips pressed tightly together as if he would stifle a cry of pain.

“Are you suffering?” I asked, greatly moved by the expression of agony imprinted on his pallid face.

“It will pass, Monsieur,” he answered bravely, trying to smile at me.  “’Tis strange the spirit of man is so enslaved to the flesh that one cannot wholly master a bit of physical pain.  No doubt I am somewhat cramped from my long imprisonment, and, perchance, my wounds have not rightly healed.”

“Are you wounded?  I beg you permit me to attend to that.  I possess some small skill in the bandaging and dressing of cuts.”

His eyes rested upon me with all the tenderness of a woman.

“I truly thank you, Monsieur, but it is beyond your skill to aid me, even were you of the school of Paris.  They be of a savage nature, which God alone may beautify.”

He slightly lifted his long black robe as he spoke, and may the merciful Father forgive the oath which sprang to my lips as I gazed in horror at the disfiguration—­two fleshless limbs, one without even the semblance of a foot, merely a blackened, charred stump rested on the rock floor.

“Mother of God!” I sobbed, “it has been burned off!”

“Ay,” he returned, in all gentleness, covering the awful sight.  “Yet were they gladly given for Christ’s sake.”

“I doubt that not,” gazing in wonder at his girlish face.  “But tell me, who were guilty of such fiendish cruelty—­the savages of this tribe?”

“Two months ago it was done in the valley below, in the village of the Natchez,” his eyes again upon the crucifix.  “Yet dwell not upon it, Monsieur, for it is so little I can hope to do for the glory of God.  It may be I am not even worthy of martyrdom.”

“So the Natchez did that!” the breath hissing between my teeth.  “Where was their gentle-hearted Queen?”

“I know not, Monsieur, if they have a Queen.  I saw none exercising authority excepting priests of their strange worship.  It was the chief priest who held me in the flame.”

I crushed back the hot, useless words burning on my lips, and turned to look at the Puritan.  We had conversed in English, and he must have comprehended every word, yet there was no softening in the glint of his hard, gray eyes.

“Hear you the priest’s story, sirrah?” I asked, feeling strong inclination to vent my spleen on him for such bull-headedness.  “Is he not one to honor rather than pick a quarrel with in such place as this?”

“’T is no quarrel I seek, nor am I like to question the fanatical courage of a Jesuit.  But I tell you his teaching is false, an outrage on the true religion of the saints, and I am of a strain which can never companion with any of that black-robed breed.  Call me what ye please, Master Benteen, but I am too old a man, too long indoctrined in the faith, ever to acknowledge brotherhood with hirelings of the Romish church.”