We were kicked and harried through the village to the Dancing-Place;
but a messenger stayed us at the last minute, and our guards flogged
us back into the Council-House. We were fed perfunctorily and given
water to drink, then left to our own devices whilst the guards played
a gambling game with peach-stones. So the morning dragged by until
the sun was beginning to decline toward the west and a second
messenger disturbed the wrangling players.
We were yanked to our feet and pushed outside. Thousands of Indians
lined the narrow, dirty streets between the bark houses and lodges.
They greeted us with a silence so intent that it was as arresting as
a shout. Not a finger was laid upon us, not a voice was raised. Yet
the fierce anticipation which gleamed in every face was more
threatening than definite gestures.
The guards hustled us along; and as we passed, the hordes of savages
closed in behind us and flowed in a mighty, barbaric stream at our
heels. Ahead of us opened the flat expanse of the Dancing-Place,
with the two lonely stakes, flanked by piles of freshly gathered
firewood, standing like portents of evil against the dark-green
background of the pines which walled the rear of the amphitheater.
Ta-wan-ne-ars looked eagerly in every direction, but she whom he
sought was not present nor were there visible any of her carrion crew
of priests. Only the sinister faces of the negro, Tom, and Bolling,
with his tangle of red hair, stirred recollections in that alien,
hostile mass. They, too, were under the spell of the gathering, a
spell which seemed to have for its object the compression of the
combined malevolence of the ferocious throng.
Our guards bound us to the stakes as they had the day before, and
Ta-wan-ne-ars, with a significant glance at me, rallied them with the
searching wit of his race.
"The Cahnuaga dogs are not used to taking captives," he commented.
"They do not know what to do unless their white masters tell them.
They are women. They should be tilling the field. They do not know
how to torment real warriors."
When they were passing the thongs under his arm-pits, the Seneca bent
forward and fastened his teeth in the forearm of an incautious guard.
The blood spurted and the man yelped with pain. Ta-wan-ne-ars
laughed.
"Unarmed and bound, yet I can hurt you," he cried. "Truly, you are
women. The warriors of the Great League scorn you."
Strangely enough, they made no retaliation upon him; but, having
securely fastened us to the stakes, withdrew and stood somewhat apart
from the encompassing crowds.
The silence continued for more than an hour, when a lane was opened
opposite to us and Murray and de Veulle sauntered forward.
"I trust you have fared well, Master Juggins--I beg pardon, Master
Ormerod?" remarked Murray urbanely. "No discomforts? Enough to eat
and sufficient attention?"
I profited by Ta-wan-ne-ars' example, and thrust for the one weak
spot in the man's armor of egotism.
"You do proclaim yourself for what you are," I answered him steadily.
"Sure, no man of breeding would descend to the depths you reach. I
do assure you, fellow, if you ever return to civilization and attempt
to mix with the gently bred, your plow-boy origin will out."
His face was suffused to a purple hue.
"'Sdeath!" he rasped. "Sir, know you not I am of the Murrays of
Cobbielaw? I quarter my arms with the Keiths! I have a right to
carry the Bleeding Heart on my shield! I----"
"No, no," I interrupted. "'Tis easy for you to claim here in the
wilderness, but the humblest cadet of the house of Douglas would
disprove you. 'Tis the bleeding hearts of your enemies you bear.
You tear them out like the savages and devour them to make medicine.
You are a foul, cowardly half-breed, more red than white."
"I have the blood of kings in my veins!" he shouted in the words he
had used on board ship.
I laughed in his face, and Ta-wan-ne-ars joined in. Murray stormed
in vain. I heaped ridicule upon his claims until cynical amusement
appeared in de Veulle's eyes, for the man's conceit was fantastic.
"My mother was a Horne of ----" he asserted finally.
"I dislike to speak ill of any woman," I cut him off; "and certes I
could weep for the grief of her who conceived you, whatever she was.
But I make no doubt she was some Huron squaw."
His face went dead white.
"I was pleaded with overlong to spare you," he said in accents so
cold that the words fell like icicles breaking from the rocks. "I am
glad I resisted."
"You were never tempted to yield," I assured him.
"I shall give orders now that your torments be the most ingenious our
savages can devise," he returned.
"I doubt it not," I said.
"You will die in much agony," he continued placidly. "Nobody will
ever know of your taunts. And I"--his vanity flared up again--"I
shall die a marquis and a duke."
"And a convicted criminal," I added.
He murmured something to de Veulle and walked away, the savages
moving from his path as if he were death in person, for indeed they
feared him, more even than they feared Black Robe and their own
accursed priests. He was the master of all.
"So you are to be chief torturer, _monsieur le chevalier_?" I
remarked to de Veulle.
"Even so," he agreed.
"There could not be a fitter," I said sympathetically.
"I thank you for your appreciation," he replied.
"Yes," I reflected aloud, "unless it be at small-swords or in fair
fight with any weapon, you should make a fair executioner. 'Twas an
excellent butcher was spoiled in the modeling of you."
But de Veulle refused to be annoyed.
"Keep up your spirits by all means," he said--and in sober truth, I
talked as much for that as to plague my enemies. "You will need them
anon. I have instructed the savages to give you the long torment.
You will be still alive this time tomorrow. Think of it! Your
Iroquois friend knows what that means--an eyeless, bloody wreck of a
man, begging to be slain! Ah, well, you would blunder in my way."
"I thought it was Murray's way," I answered.
"'Tis all one. And after all, as you must know, Murray is no more
than a pawn in our plans."
"He would enjoy hearing you say so."
"He never will--and you will not be able to tell him when next you
see, or rather, hear him."
He beckoned to the Cahnuaga chief.
"Let loose your people," he ordered, and stepped back.
The Cahnuaga put his hand to his mouth, and the high-pitched, soaring
notes of the war-whoop resounded through the air. And as if one
directing center animated them all the thousands of savages closed in
on us, yelling and shrieking, weapons menacing, feet pounding the
measures of some clumsy dance.
They swirled round and round us, those who could get nearest dashing
up to the stakes to mock at us or threaten us with words and weapons.
Nobody touched us, but the strain of constantly expecting physical
assault was nerve-racking. Ta-wan-ne-ars smiled serenely at them
all, and when he could make himself heard, returned their threats.
This continued for a long time. Twilight was at hand before they
dropped back, and a select band of young warriors began to exhibit
their skill with bow and arrow, knife and tomahawk. Arrows were shot
between our arms and bodies; tomahawks hurtled into the posts beside
our ears; knives were hurled from the far side of the open space, so
closely aimed that their points shaved our naked ribs. Once in a
while we were scratched; the handle of a tomahawk, poorly thrown,
raised a bump on my forehead. And de Veulle, squatting on the ground
with a knot of chiefs, applauded the show.
It went on and on. New forms of mental torture were constantly
devised. Darkness closed down, and the fires beside the stakes were
lighted. I was in a daze. I had ceased to feel fear or misgiving.
I was conscious only of a great weariness and thirst. The clamor
that dinned in my ears, the weapons that jarred the post at
intervals, the wild figures that leaped in the firelight--all
combined in a weird blur that gradually became a coherent picture as
my mind recalled for the second time the dying words of the Cahnuaga
in the glade by the Great Trail.
"'Be sure that whatever you do you cannot equal the ingenuity of the
Ga-go-sa.'"
Hark! What was that eery sound that stole through the shadows, a
sliding, minor chant that wailed and died away?
But the picture went on shaping itself in my mind.
"'I seem to see pictures in the firelight of a stake, and a building
with a tower and a bell that rings, and many of the Ga-go-sa dance
around you, and your pain is very great.'"
Yes, there was the picture: our stakes, side by side, two instead of
one; the fires that roared and flamed, the figures that danced and
yelled; and beyond, across the village, the tower with the "bell that
rings," looming above the trees. And as I looked, the sickle moon,
silvery-bright and sharp as a sword, protruded its upper horn over
the wooden tower.
Of a sudden I realized that the shouting had died down. The prancing
figures were at rest. But into the circle of firelight swayed the
hideous column of False Faces, their masks of monstrous birds and
beasts and reptiles seeming alive with horrid purpose in the shifting
gloom, their feet moving harmoniously in the hesitant step of the
dance, their voices united in the monotonous music of their chant.
They strung a circle, as they had done the day before, and halted,
heads wabbling this way and that. There was a brief pause, and I
noticed de Veulle, risen to his feet and staring intently behind me,
where the wall of pines made a perfect background for the spectacle.
A sigh burst from the half-seen throngs of savages.
"Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta!"
I craned my neck, and as well as the thongs permitted me peered
around the stake to which I was lashed. A white figure flitted from
the protection of the trees and glided toward us. The False Faces
started a queer, rhythmic air, accompanied by gently throbbing drums.
The figure commenced to dance, arms wide, hair floating free.
Besides me Ta-wan-ne-ars choked back a groan of hate and love and
fought fruitlessly against the rawhide thongs.
'Twas Ga-ha-no. She danced forward, passing between our stakes and
into the open arena which was delimited by the vague, crouching forms
of the False Faces. She wore again her ceremonial uniform, the kilt
and moccasins; but this time they were white, fashioned of skins
taken from the bellies of young does. Her limbs and body, too, were
coated with some white substance that made her gleam like a delicate
marble statue when she postured in the flickering radiance of the
fires. Her hair floated about her like a black mist, first
concealing, then revealing, the perfect, swelling lines of her figure.
She tossed up her arms in a curving gesture toward the moon, riding
low above the treetops. The music of the attendant priests swung
into a faster measure, the pulsing of the drums became subtly
disturbing, commanding.
"O So-a-ka-ga-gwa," she cried, "I, your servant, the Mistress of the
False Faces, begin now the Moon Feast we make in your honor!"
She resumed her dance, but 'twas very different from the graceful,
pleasing steps she had first used. I know not how to describe it,
save perhaps that 'twas like the music, provocative, appealing to the
basest instincts in man, indecent with a peculiarly attractive
indecency. It was, I think, the dance of creation, of the impulse of
life, one of the oldest and in its perverted way one of the truest
dances which man ever devised. It could only be danced by a savage
people, primitive and unashamed.
You could feel its influence upon the bystanders, the thousands who
stood or crouched or sat around the curve of the amphitheater beyond
the lines of False Faces. You could feel their rising emotion; the
instincts, normally half-tamed, that awakened in them; the cravings
that slowly began to dominate them. You could hear the catching
breaths, the yelps of satisfaction, the growing spirit of license, of
utter savagery.
Faster went the measure of the dance. Faster whirled the glistening
white figure. Her hair streamed behind her; her moccasins barely
touched the ground; her body was contorted with supple precision.
Now she danced before us, her eyes burning with mockery--I know not
what--of Ta-wan-ne-ars. Now she spun around the open space in a
series of intricate steps and posturings.
The music worked up to a crescendo, the drums thudding with furious
speed. Ga-ha-no leaped high in air and raised her arms toward the
moon, whose sickle shape was no whiter or fairer than she.
The chant stopped in the middle of a mote, and as her feet touched
the ground again she ran lightly across the amphitheater and threw
herself into de Veulle's arms. He tossed her upon his shoulder.
"The Moon Feast is open, O my people," she called back as he
disappeared with her into the shadows.
All those thousands of people went mad. The Dancing-Place became a
wild tumult of naked savages, men and women, leaping in groups and
couples to the renewed music of the False Faces. Decency and
restraint were cast aside.
Tom and Bolling rolled in barrels of rum, which were opened and
consumed as rapidly as the heads were knocked off; and the raw
spirits combined with the hellish chant and the suggestive throbbing
of the drums to stimulate afresh the passions which Ga-ha-no's
dancing had aroused.[1]
[1] Decency forbids a detailed description of these horrible
rites.--H.O.
At first they paid no attention to us. They were preoccupied with
the extraordinary hysteria which had gripped them. They
apostrophized the moon. The women flung themselves upon the False
Faces, for it was deemed an honor to receive the attentions of these
priests of evil. The men worked themselves into an excess of
debauchery. Groups formed and dissolved with amazing rapidity.
Individuals, wearying of each other, ran hither and thither, seeking
partners who were more pleasing or attractive to them.
But at last a portion of the drunken mob turned upon us. An old
woman with wispy gray hair and shrunken breasts beat Ta-wan-ne-ars on
the flank with a smoldering brand. Bolling, whatever of man there
was in him smothered under the brutishness the rum had excited,
carefully inserted a pine-splinter in the quick of my fingernail. I
gritted my teeth to force back the scream of agony, and managed to
laugh--how, I do not know--when he set it alight.
"The brother of Ta-wan-ne-ars is a great warrior," proclaimed my
comrade, swift to come to my help. "Red Jack and his friends can not
hurt Ormerod. We laugh at you."
Bolling ripped out his knife and staggered toward the Seneca's stake.
"I'll make you laugh," he spat wickedly. "I'll carve your mouth
wider so you can laugh plenty when we begin on you in earnest. Think
this has been anything? We----"
A yell of mingled fear and laughter interrupted him. False Faces and
warriors, women as well as men, were pointing toward the background
of the pines.
"Ne-e-ar-go-ye, the Bear, is come to play with us," they cried.