could distinguish lank arms, and streaming hair. The prisoner's voice
echoed as clear as if he were in some great playhouse, and were singing
to gain the plaudits of a friendly throng.

I felt my blood tingling in my fingers' ends. It was a brave song,
bravely sung. I could not understand the English words, but the sound
was rollicking with defiance. It was a glove thrown in our faces; the
challenge of a brave man to a cowardly foe.

"The plucky beggar!" I said half aloud, and I set my teeth hard.

But Cadillac was nudging my elbow. "You said that the prisoner was a
man of importance," he accused, with a perplexed frown. "But, listen!
He has the voice of a boy."

I was greedy to hear, so, with a wave of the hand, I shook Cadillac
away. But, in truth, I was disturbed. The tones were certainly boyish.

The canoes came within bowshot, and the hush that held the camp
suddenly broke like the release of pent waters. There were yells and
stamping, the smash of tom-toms, and a scattering salvo of musketry.
It was a united roar that shut out from our consciousness the thought
of the calm sky and the silent water.

The canoes had come as unswervingly as arrows, and the one that held
the prisoner landed at my feet. I looked up, and met his eyes, and I
swept my hat from my head.

"You are among friends," I called, not knowing that I did so.

It was a foolish speech, since the prisoner could not understand; but I
suppose that my tone was kind, for it apparently gave him courage. At
least, a flush that might have been the color of returning hope rose in
his cheeks. I was relieved at his appearance, for he was not the
little lad that his song had made me fear. He was slim and beardless,
but there were sorrow and understanding in his look that could not come
with childhood. For the rest, he was dark and gaunt from exposure and
privation. His rough woolen suit, leather-lined, hung loosely on him,
but he wore it with a jauntiness that matched the bravado of his song.

Cadillac came forward in welcome. He was always an orator that the
Indians themselves envied, and now his rhetoric was as unhampered as
though he thought that the prisoner was following each flowing
syllable. As he unbound the stiffened arms--they were pitifully thin
and small, I thought--he called all mythology to witness his deep
regret that this indignity should have been offered to his brother of
the white race. I followed him and listened,