She paused as if seeking to mark the effect of her words, but the pere merely stooped slightly, whispering some message of comfort into the ear of Eloise.  Then he stood erect again.

“As you will, woman; to die for Christ is gain.”

The face of Naladi, which had been pale and drawn, flushed, her eyes fairly blazing.

“So you dare mock me, you hireling priest!” she hissed. “’T is not for long; I am no snivelling French girl, afraid of blood.  And now I give you a taste of my power.”

As the words fell from her thin lips, she flung up one hand, exhibiting with a peculiar gesture a glittering metallic substance shining in the light.  It must have been a signal for unrestrained sacrifice, for it was greeted with fierce howls of delight, the savage herd pressing in upon the prisoners, so that I lost sight of them an instant in the crush.

“Wait, woman!” rose the priest’s voice above the uproar.  “I admit your power here to take physical life; I expect no mercy from such as you.  But, if you be not lost to all shame, grant me one favor, Marie Fousard.”

“What?”

“A moment of time in which I may give absolution to this child of God before we die.”

“Pish! is that all?  Go on with your fool mummery.  I will hold back the savages till that be done, though the sight of it will but anger them.”

Eloise had sunk down against the altar, with face buried in her hands.  The pere dropped upon his knees beside her.  About them surged the glistening forms of the savages, maddened with blood-lust, but Naladi clapped her hands, with voice and gesture bidding them wait her further word.  An instant they swayed passionately back and forth, their fanatical priests clamoring in opposition to this halting of vengeance.  Then Naladi shook loose her hair, permitting its wealth to fall in a golden-red shower, until it veiled her from head to foot.  The silenced crowd stared as if in worship of the supernatural.  I know not what she said, uplifting her white arms from out that red-gold canopy, yet I can guess.

“Natchez, I dare you to disobey the Daughter of the Sun!”

Swept by a superstition stronger than hate, they flung themselves at her feet, prostrating their faces to the rock, grovelling like worms, heedless of all except her presence and her supremacy.  She was a goddess, one whose will was destruction.  Gazing down upon them, conscious of her power, her thin lips smiled in contempt.  ’T was so I saw her last; so I shall always picture her in memory—­a motionless, statuesque figure, covered with a veil of red-gold hair, her eyes like diamonds, her bare, white arms gleaming, her lips curved in proud disdain; a queen of savages, a high priestess of Hell.

The sudden cessation of noise was awesome, uncanny.  It rendered manifest the ceaseless roar of thunder without.  Directly in front of me yawned the cave entrance, plainly illuminated by vivid lightning.  Dreadful as was the spectacle, it yielded me a flash of hope—­here opportunity pointed a path of escape.  With no pause for thought I whirled to arouse the Puritan, every nerve a-tingle with desperation.  His deep-set eyes glowed like two coals, his square jaw projecting like that of a fighting bulldog.