revenge himself upon the
enemies of his race. The slayer of Panthers, and the White Eagle, shall
die a hundred deaths. They have mocked the forest maiden, who has
followed them from afar. Her vengeance shall be satisfied; and the
Red-Hand will have his joy--ha, ha, ha!"

Uttering a peal of demoniac laughter, the Indian held the point of the
knife close to my forehead--as if about to drive the blade into my eyes!
It was but a feint to produce terror--a spectacle which this monster
was said to enjoy.

Wingrove was still alive: the wretch Su-wa-nee must be near?

"_Carajo_!" again yelled the savage. "What promised you the Red-Hand?
To cut the living flesh from your bones? But _no_--that would be
merciful. The Arapahoes have contrived a sweeter vengeance--one that
will appease the spirits of our slain warriors. We shall combine sport
with the sacrifice of the pale-faced dogs--ha, ha, ha!"

After another fiendish cachinnation, far more horrible to hear than his
words of menace, the monster continued:

"Dog! you refused to instruct the Arapaho in the skill of the
fire-weapon; but you shall furnish them with at least one lesson before
you die--ha, ha! You shall soon experience the pleasant death we have
prepared for you! Ugh!"

"Haste!" he continued, addressing himself to his follower; "prepare him
for the sacrifice! Our warriors are impatient for the sport. The blood
of our brothers is calling for vengeance. This in white, with a red
spot in the centre--the rest of his body in black."

These mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture.
With the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my
breast--just as if he had been _scribing_ it on the bark of a tree. The
scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood. At the words
"red spot in the centre," as if to make the direction more emphatic, he
punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely. Had he
driven the blade to its hilt, I could not have flinched: I was fixed
firmly as the post to which they had bound me. I could not speak a
word--either to question his intent, or reply to his menace. The gag
was still between my teeth, and I was necessarily silent. It mattered
little about my remaining silent. Had my tongue been free, it would
have been idle to use it. In the wolf's visage, there was no one trait
of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty.
I knew that he would on