For the third time the tall woman in the beaded garment took the
hatchet and squared her shoulders.
"What does it mean?" McElroy was thinking wildly; "why does she not
save him while there is time?" And, even as the words went through his
brain, something snapped therein and he was conscious of the circle of
faces in the forest edge waving in grotesque undulations, of the arm of
Maren as it straightened forward, of the flash of the hatchet as it
flew for the painted post, and then of great darkness sewn with a
thousand stars.
As Maren had raised her hand for the throw, from somewhere out of the
darkness behind the fire a stone death-maul had hurtled, aimed at her
wrist, but he who threw was sorry of sight as a drunken man, for it
struck the head of McElroy instead and he sagged down against the
moosehide thongs, even as the hatchet once more clicked snugly in its
former cleft.
Then from all the concourse there went up a shout, half in anger and
half in wild applause.
"Nik-o-men-wa!" they cried; "the Thrower of the Seven Tribes! But the
White Doe plays with the decree of Gitche Manitou! Bring the spear!
Fetch forth the spears, oh, Men of Wisdom!"
But in the midst of the excitement a figure walked slowly forth in the
light and held up a hand for silence.
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