e maidens struck him with willows which left red
welts on his white shoulders. The braves buried the blades of their
tomahawks in the post as near as possible to his head without
actually hitting him.

Isaac knew the Indian nature well. To command the respect of the
savages was the only way to lessen his torture. He knew that a cry
for mercy would only increase his sufferings and not hasten his
death,--indeed it would prolong both. He had resolved to die without
a moan. He had determined to show absolute indifference to his
torture, which was the only way to appeal to the savage nature, and
if anything could, make the Indians show mercy. Or, if he could
taunt them into killing him at once he would be spared all the
terrible agony which they were in the habit of inflicting on their
victims.

One handsome young brave twirled a glittering tomahawk which he
threw from a distance of ten, fifteen, and twenty feet and every
time the sharp blade of the hatchet sank deep into the stake within
an inch of Isaac's head. With a proud and disdainful look Isaac
gazed straight before him and paid no heed to his tormentor.

"Does the Indian boy think he can frighten a white warrior?" said
Isaac scornfully at length. "Let him go and earn his eagle plumes.
The pale face laughs at him."

The young brave understood the Huron language, for he gave a
frightful yell and cast his tomahawk again, this time shaving a lock
of hair from Isaac's head.

This was what Isaac had prayed for. He hoped that one of these
glittering hatchets would be propelled less skillfully than its
predecessors and would kill him instantly. But the enraged brave had
no other opportunity to cast his weapon, for the Indians jeered at
him and pushed him from the line.

Other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knives
and tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derision
from Isaac. They left the weapons sticking in the post until round
Isaac's head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another.

"The White Eagle is tired of boys," cried Isaac to a chief dancing
near. "What has he done that he be made the plaything of children?
Let him die the death of a chief."

The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the
prisoner. Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn. The prisoner's
proud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for his
enemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red welts
upon