No fire was kindled at their stakes,
no sudden stroke of death maul or tomahawk followed his words. The
Nakonkirhirinons had keener tortures, torments of a finer fibre than
mere physical suffering, and the Bois-Brules' liquor had stirred the
hidden resources.
Again the dancing commenced, but this time it was not the harmless
measure of the stamp-dance. Instead of the bending bodies, the rhythmic
stamping of soft-shod feet, the extended palms, there were unspeakable
leapings, writhings, and grimaces revolting in their horror,
brandishing of knives, and yelling that was incessant.
McElroy closed his eyes and forced his mind to the Petition for Mercy.
Through the tenor of the beautiful words there cut from time to time De
Courtenay's voice, cool, contemptuous, a running fire of invective, now
in French, now in English, and again in the Assiniboine tongue, which
was familiar to the Nakonkirhirinons, they being friends with that
tribe.
As the hubbub rose with the liquor two slabs were brought, rough
sections of trees hastily smoothed with axe and hatchet, of the height
of a man and the thickness thereof, with a slight margin at top and
sides. These were set up behind the stakes that held them, thus forming
a background, and the two naked forms stood out in the firelight like
pictures in white frames.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224