Then the hostiles left the dead and the half-dead for the wolves.

Prodded forward by lance-thrusts, we began the weary march back to the lodges.  The sun sank on the snowy wastes red as a shield of blood; and with the early dusk of the northern night purpling the shadowy fields in mist came a south wind that filled the desolate silence with restless waitings as of lament for eternal wrong, moaning and sighing and rustling past like invisible spirits that find no peace.

Some of the Indians laid hands to thin lips with a low “Hs-s-h,” and the whole band quickened pace.  Before twilight had deepened to the dark that precedes the silver glow of the moon and stars and northern lights, we were back where Le Borgne had killed the old man.  The very snow had been picked clean, and through the purple gloom far back prowled vague forms.

Jack Battle and I looked at each other, but the Indian fellow, who was our guard, emitted a harsh, rasping laugh.  As for Godefroy, he was marching abreast of the braves gabbling a mumble-jumble of pleadings and threats, which, I know very well, ignored poor Jack.  Godefroy would make a scapegoat of the weak to save his own neck, and small good his cowardice did him!

The moon was high in mid-heaven flooding a white world when we reached the lodges.  We three were placed under guards, while the warriors feasted their triumph and danced the scalp-dance to drive away the spirits of the dead.  To beat of tom-tom and shriek of gourd-rattles, the whole terrible scene was re-enacted.  Stripping himself naked, but for his moccasins, the old wizard pranced up and down like a fiend in the midst of the circling dancers.  Flaming torches smoked from poles in front of the lodges, or were waved and tossed by the braves.  Flaunting fresh scalps from lance-heads, with tomahawk in the other hand, each warrior went through all the fiendish moves and feints of attack—­prowling on knees, uttering the yelping, wolfish yells, crouching for the leap, springing through mid-air, brandishing the battle-axe, stamping upon the imaginary prostrate foe, stooping with a glint of the scalping knife, then up, with a shout of triumph and the scalp waving from the lance, all in time to the dull thum—­thum—­thum of the tom-tom and the screaming chant of the wizard.  Still the south wind moaned about the lodges; and the dancers shouted the louder to drown those ghost-cries of the dead.  Faster and faster beat the drum.  Swifter and swifter darted the braves, hacking their own flesh in a frenzy of fear till their shrieks out-screamed the wind.

Then the spirits were deemed appeased.

The mad orgy of horrors was over, but the dancers were too exhausted for the torture of prisoners.  The older men came to the lodge where we were guarded and Godefroy again began his importunings.

Setting Jack Battle aside, they bade the trader and me come out.

“Better one be tortured than three,” heartlessly muttered Godefroy to Jack.  “Now they’ll set us free for fear of M. Radisson, and we’ll come back for you.”