straightened, crossed his arms, and smiled upon them in
contempt.

Pandemonium was loose.

In breathless swiftness the captives were stripped to the skin, tied
hand and foot, and fastened to stakes set hastily up on either side the
fire.

"It begins to look, M'sieu," called De Courtenay, across the space and
the roaring flames, "as if the Nor'westers and the Hudson's Bays must
scratch up a new wintering partner and a fresh factor,--though, 'ods
blood! this one is fresh enough! Will they cure us as as they have
Negansahima?"

At mention of the dead chief a dozen missiles cut the night air and
struck the speaker. One, a lighted torch, landed full in his face, and
McElroy groaned aloud.

If De Courtenay hoped by his taunts and his jeers to reach a swifter
end, he was mistaken in that hope. No fire was kindled at their stakes,
no sudden stroke of death maul or tomahawk followed his words. The
Nakonkirhirinons had keener tortures, torments of a finer fibre than
mere physical suffering, and the Bois-Brules' liquor had stirred the
hidden resources.

Again the dancing commenced, but this time it was not the harmless
measure of the stamp-dance. Instead of the bending bodies, the rhythmic
stamping of soft-shod feet, the extended palms, there were unspeakable
leapings, writhings, and grimaces revolting in their horror, brandishing
of knives, and yelling that was incessant.

McElroy closed his eyes and forced his mind to the Petition for Mercy.

Through the tenor of the beautiful words there cut from time to time De
Courtenay's voice, cool, contemptuous, a running fire of invective, now
in French, now in English, and again in the Assiniboine tongue, which
was familiar to the Nakonkirhirinons, they being friends with that
tribe.

As the hubbub rose with the liquor two slabs were brought, rough
sections of trees hastily smoothed with axe and hatchet, of the height
of a man and the thickness thereof, with a slight margin at top and
sides. These were set up behind the stakes that held them, thus forming
a background, and the two naked forms stood out in the firelight like
pictures in white frames.

A wise old sachem, hideously painted, drew a line on the ground at
thirty feet, facing the central fire, and with a bony finger picked out
a certain number of warriors.

Full fifty there seemed to McElroy when he opened his eyes to see them
ranged before the line, all armed with knives that shone in the glow,
and (grim irony