ed them still further by shrugging at them and
making great faces of contempt. When one offered me a meal cake I
kicked at him and trampled the food into the ground, and as I swaggered
away I heard him tell the others that I was a bear for courage. I
could have smiled at that, for I was acting more like a blustering
terrier than any nobler animal, but I would not let them see that I
understood their tongue.

And so I pushed my way about. But wherever I went, or whatever else my
eyes were doing, I kept watch upon the woman. She stood quiet with
Singing Arrow and waited for what might come. Her fate was hanging
with Starling's at the council ring, and I knew that I must keep away
from her. That was not easy. Each time that I let my glance rest upon
the foulness of the camp I felt that I must go to her and blind her
eyes. But I never made more than one step. I had only to look at her
to understand that her spirit had learned in these months to hold
itself above the body. What was passing did not touch her; she lived
in the fortress of her splendidly garrisoned pride. Singing Arrow
stood equally aloof, intrenched in her stoicism, but I think the root
motives of the two were different, though the outside index was the
same. Indeed, we all had different wellsprings for our composure.
Pierre's stolidity was largely training. Starling's quiet might mean
instinctive imitation, but I feared it was something more sinister.
While mine---- But I had no composure. I swaggered and shrugged and
played harlequin and boaster.

We were soon to learn that Starling's quiet was not impervious. I saw
him start. His hand flew to where his knife had been, and his teeth
showed like a jackal's. A figure that had lain, blanket-shrouded in
the shadow, had risen and come forward. It was Pemaou. He had pleased
his humor by being an unseen auditor and letting us play out our
various forms of resistance and despair for his delight. Now he would
make a dramatic entry. He was dressed for the part in a loin cloth, a
high laced hat of scarlet, and the boots of a captain of dragoons. He
stopped before Starling and grinned silently. Then he held his hat,
French fashion, and made a derisive bow. The Englishman forgot his
dignity and cursed. I wished that I had been near enough to hold up a
warning hand.

I knew my turn was next, so was prepared. Pemaou sought me, and stood
before me, but I would not see him; I looked through him