“For Christ’s sake, let us go!” he urged, in an agonized whisper, “See what those demons are about to do!  I fear not battle, Wayland, as you know; but the scene yonder unmans me.”

It is hard for me to describe now what then I saw.  The entire centre of the great encampment was brightly lit by a huge blazing fire, around which hundreds of Indians were gathered, leaping and shouting in their frenzy, while above the noise of their discordant voices we could distinguish the flat notes of the wooden drum, the dull pounding of which reminded me of the solemn tolling of a funeral bell.  What atrocities had been going on, I know not; but as we gazed across at them in shuddering horror, forth from the entrance of a lodge a dozen painted warriors drove a white man, stripped to the waist, his hands bound behind him.  As he stumbled forward, a bevy of squaws lashed him with corded whips.  I caught one glimpse of his face in the light of the flames; it was that of a young soldier I recalled having seen the evening before within the Fort, playing a violin.  He was a brave lad, and although his face was pale and drawn by suffering, he fronted the crazed mob that buffeted him with no sign of fear, his eyes roving about as if still seeking some possible avenue of escape.  Once he sprang suddenly aside, tripping a giant brave who grasped him, and disappeared amid the lodges, only to be dragged forth a moment later and pushed forward, horribly beaten with clubs at every step.

On a sudden, that shrieking, undulating crowd fell away, and we could see the young man standing alone, bound to a stake, his body leaning forward as if held to its erect posture merely by the bonds.  The limp drooping of his head made me think him already unconscious, possibly dead from some chance fatal blow; but as the flames burst out in a roar at his feet, and shot up, red and glaring, to his waist, he gave utterance to one terrible cry of agony, and it seemed to me I gazed fairly into his tortured eyes and could read their pitiful appeal.  Twice I raised my rifle, the sight upon his heart,—­but durst not fire.  No consideration of my own peril held back the pressure of the trigger,—­’twas the remembrance of Mademoiselle.  It was beyond my strength of will to withstand such strain long.

“Come,” I groaned to De Croix, my hands pressed tightly over my eyes to shut out the sight, “it will craze us both to stay here longer, nor dare we aid the poor fellow even by a shot.”

He lay face downward on the soft mud of the bank, and I had to shake him before he so much as moved.  We crept on together, until we came out through the thick bushes into the open prairie, and faced each other, our lips white and our bodies shaking with the horror of what we had just seen.

“Mon Dieu!” he faltered, “’twill forever haunt me.”

“It has greatly undone me,” I answered, striving to control my voice, for I felt the necessity of coolness if I hoped to command him; “but if we would save her from meeting a like fate, we must remain men.”