softly against
his cheek. He took one long look toward the rising sun, toward that
east he had hoped to see, and then resolutely turned his face away
forever.

Early though it was the Indians were astir and their whooping rang
throughout the valley. Down the main street of the village the
guards led the prisoner, followed by a screaming mob of squaws and
young braves and children who threw sticks and stones at the hated
Long Knife.

Soon the inhabitants of the camp congregated on the green oval in
the midst of the lodges. When the prisoner appeared they formed in
two long lines facing each other, and several feet apart. Isaac was
to run the gauntlet--one of the severest of Indian tortures. With
the exception of Cornplanter and several of his chiefs, every Indian
in the village was in line. Little Indian boys hardly large enough
to sling a stone; maidens and squaws with switches or spears;
athletic young braves with flashing tomahawks; grim, matured
warriors swinging knotted war clubs,--all were there in line,
yelling and brandishing their weapons in a manner frightful to
behold.

The word was given, and stripped to the waist, Isaac bounded forward
fleet as a deer. He knew the Indian way of running the gauntlet. The
head of that long lane contained the warriors and older braves and
it was here that the great danger lay. Between these lines he sped
like a flash, dodging this way and that, running close in under the
raised weapons, taking what blows he could on his uplifted arms,
knocking this warrior over and doubling that one up with a lightning
blow in the stomach, never slacking his speed for one stride, so
that it was extremely difficult for the Indians to strike him
effectually. Once past that formidable array, Isaac's gauntlet was
run, for the squaws and children scattered screaming before the
sweep of his powerful arms.

The old chiefs grunted their approval. There was a bruise on Isaac's
forehead and a few drops of blood mingled with the beads of
perspiration. Several lumps and scratches showed on his bare
shoulders and arms, but he had escaped any serious injury. This was
a feat almost without a parallel in gauntlet running.

When he had been tied with wet buckskin thongs to the post in the
center of the oval, the youths, the younger braves, and the squaws
began circling round him, yelling like so many demons. The old
squaws thrust sharpened sticks, which had been soaked in salt water,
into his flesh. Th