ack! crack! went the guns again, but he
was so far away that they did not harm him. The Indians, enraged at
William's escape, gave John a whipping; but instead of whining, he
laughed in their faces. They gathered up the hunters' beaver-skins, took
their guns and traps, piled them upon John and Eastman, and started for
their canoes, greatly pleased with their luck. The Indians divided, one
party going over the Green Mountains with the furs which they had
captured, going to Albany, where they could get better prices than in
Canada, and the other, with John and Eastman, going up the Connecticut
to Lake Memphremagog, descending the St. Francis River to their village
on the St. Lawrence.

It was a wearisome journey, and John had a heavy pack to carry, but he
was young, strong, brave, and was not in the least down-hearted. He did
not think that the Indians would harm him; they could do better--sell
him to the French.

The Indian town of St. Francis was a collection of miserable cabins and
wigwams. The Jesuit fathers had been among the tribe for many years, and
had won their confidence; had converted them to Christianity; that is,
the Indians had been baptized; they counted their beads, and mumbled a
few prayers that the priests had taught them; but they had learned
nothing of the justice, mercy, or love pertaining to the Christian
religion. They were the same blood-thirsty creatures that they had
always been, and were happiest when killing and scalping the defenseless
settlers.

The whole population--warriors, squaws, and children--came out to
welcome the returning party. True, the French and English were not at
war; neither were the English at war with the Indians; but what of that?
Had they not made war on their own account? There was no one to rebuke
them, for were not the English always considered as their enemies?

The Indians of St. Francis always made their prisoners run the gauntlet.
It is not quite certain what the word comes from, but it means running
between two files of men armed with sticks and clubs, each Indian to
give the runner a whack as he passes.

The Indians, squaws, children, and all, paraded in two lines about four
feet apart. Eastman was the older, and was the first to run. Whack!
whack! went the sticks and clubs, beating him black and blue.

"Your turn now," said an Indian to John.

He is thirty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles like springs
of steel. He has an iron will, and is q