usky and broken;
"bring her away! Perhaps, in God's mercy, she may yet remember."

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE WHITE SCALP.

We repassed the horrid chamber, and emerged upon the lowermost terrace
of the temple. As I walked forward to the parapet, there was a scene
below that filled me with apprehension. A cloud seemed to fall over my
heart.

In front of the temple were the women of the village--girls, women, and
children; in all, about two hundred. They were variously attired: some
were wrapped in their striped blankets; some wore tilmas, and tunics of
embroidered fawn-skin, plumed and painted with dyes of vivid colour;
some were dressed in the garb of civilised life--in rich satins, that
had been worn by the dames of the Del Norte; in flounces that had
fluttered in the dance around the ankles of some gay maja.

Not a few in the crowd were entirely nude. They were all Indians, but
of lighter and darker shades; differing in colour as in expression of
face. Some were old, wrinkled, and coarse; but there were many of them
young, noble-like, and altogether beautiful.

They were grouped together in various attitudes. They had ceased their
screaming, but murmured among themselves in low and plaintive
exclamations.

As I looked, I saw blood running from their ears! It had dappled their
throats and spurted over their garments.

A glance satisfied me as to the cause of this. They had been rudely
robbed of their golden hangings.

Near and around them stood the scalp-hunters, in groups and afoot. They
were talking in whispers and low mutterings. There were objects about
their persons that attracted my eye. Curious articles of ornament or
use peeped out from their pouches and haversacks--bead-strings and
pieces of shining metal--gold it was--hung around their necks and over
their breasts. These were the plundered bijouterie of the savage
maidens.

There were other objects upon which my eye rested with feelings of
deeper pain. Stuck behind the belts of many were scalps, fresh and
reeking. Their knife-hilts and fingers were red; there was blood upon
their hands; there was gloom in their glances.

The picture was appalling; and, adding to its awful impression, black
clouds were at the moment rolling over the valley, and swathing the
mountains in their opaque masses. The lightning jetted from peak to
peak, followed by short claps of close and deafening thunder.

"Bring up the atajo!" shouted Seguin, as