They were brave men, these two, and they faced the singing knives
without a quiver of muscle, a droop of eye, while the joy of the
savages, at last turned loose, rose and rose in its wildness.
For an hour the mob at the line threw and shifted, the vast circle
sitting or standing in every attitude of keenest enjoyment. The slabs
bristled with steel, to be cleaned and decorated anew, while the fire
in the centre leaped and crackled with an hundred voices.
A stone's-throw away the grim tepee of the dead chief glimmered now out
of the shadow, now in, and to the east behind a rocky bluff, through
which led a narrow gorge, the river hurried to the north.
Blood-painted brilliant splotches here and there against the white
pictures, but neither man was limp in his bonds, neither fair head
drooped, neither pair of blue eyes flinched. De Courtenay's long curls
hung like cords of gold against his bare shoulder, enhancing the great
beauty of him, while his brilliant smile flashed with uncanny
steadiness. McElroy's face was grave, lips tight, eyes narrow, and
forehead furrowed with the thought he strove in vain to make
connected.
Suddenly every shade of colour drained out of his countenance, leaving
it white as the virgin slab behind.
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