“If I die, I die valiant! 
  I go without fear
  To that land where brave men
  Have gone long before me—­
  If I die, I die valiant.”

Twelve miles up the Richelieu, the Iroquois landed to camp.  The prisoners were pegged out on the sand, elbows trussed to knees, each captive tied to a post.  In this fashion they lay every night of encampment, tortured by sand-flies that they were powerless to drive off.  At the entrance to the Mohawk village, a yoke was fastened to the captives’ necks by placing pairs of saplings one on each side down the line of prisoners.  By the rope round the waist of the foremost prisoner, they were led slowly between the lines of tormentors.  The captives were ordered to sing.  If one refused or showed fear, a Mohawk struck off a finger with a hatchet, or tore the prisoners’ nails out, or thrust red-hot irons into the muscles of the bound arms.[10] As Radisson appeared, he was recognized with shouts of rage by the friends of the murdered Mohawks.  Men, women, and children armed with rods and skull-crackers—­leather bags loaded with stones—­rushed on the slowly moving file of prisoners.

“They began to cry from both sides,” says Radisson; “we marching one after another, environed with people to witness that hideous sight, which seriously may be called the image of Hell in this world.”

The prisoners moved mournfully on.  The Hurons chanted their death dirge.  The Mohawk women uttered screams of mockery.  Suddenly there broke from the throng of onlookers the Iroquois family that had adopted Radisson.  Pushing through the crew of torturers, the mother caught Radisson by the hair, calling him by the name of her dead son, “Orimha!  Orimha!” She cut the thongs that bound him to the poles, and wresting him free shoved him to her husband, who led Radisson to their own lodge.

“Thou fool,” cried the old chief, “thou wast my son!  Thou makest thyself an enemy!  Thou lovest us not, though we saved thy life!  Wouldst kill me, too?” Then, with a rough push to a mat on the ground, “Chagon—­now, be merry!  It’s a merry business you’ve got into!  Give him something to eat!”

Trembling with fear, young Radisson put as bold a face on as he could and made a show of eating what the squaw placed before him.  He was still relating his adventures when there came a roar of anger from the Mohawks outside, who had discovered his absence from the line.  A moment later the rabble broke into the lodge.  Jostling the friendly chief aside, the Mohawk warriors carried Radisson back to the orgies of the torture.  The prisoners had been taken out of the stocks and placed on several scaffoldings.  One poor Frenchman fell to the ground bruised and unable to rise.  The Iroquois tore the scalp from his head and threw him into the fire.  That was Radisson’s first glimpse of what was in store for him.  Then he, too, stood on the scaffolding among the other prisoners,