in its darkest and most
somber colors.

They reached the northern shore without difficulty, hid the canoes for
future use, and resumed their leisurely journey northward. Braxton Wyatt,
who seemed to Paul to have much freedom, resumed his advances toward a
renewal of the old friendship, but Paul was resolute. He could not
overcome his repulsion, Braxton Wyatt might plead, and make excuses, and
talk about the terror of torture and death, but Paul remained unconvinced.
He himself had not flinched at the crucial moment to undo what Wyatt was
doing, and in his heart he could find no forgiveness for the one whom he
called a renegade.

Wyatt refused to take offense. He said, and Paul could not but hear, that
Paul some day would be grateful for what he was doing, and that it was
necessary in the forest to meet craft with craft, guile with guile.

The days passed in hunting, eating, resting, and marching, and Paul lost
count of time, distance, and direction. He had not Henry's wonderful
instinct in the wilderness, and he could not now tell at what point of the
compass Wareville lay. But he kept a brave heart and a brave face, and if
at times he felt despair, he did not let anyone see it.

They came at last to a place where the forest thinned out, and then broke
away, leaving a little prairie. The warriors, who had previously been
painting themselves in more hideous colors than ever, broke into a long,
loud, wailing chant. It was answered in similar fashion from a point
beyond a swell in the prairie, and Paul knew that they had come to the
Indian village. The wailing chant was a sign that they had returned after
disaster, and now all the old squaws were taking it up in reply. Paul was
filled with curiosity, and he watched everything.

The warriors emerged from the last fringe of the forest, their faces
blackened, the hideous chant for their lost rising and falling, but never
ceasing. Forward to meet them poured a mongrel throng--old men, old
squaws, children, mangy curs, and a few warriors. Paul was with Red Eagle,
and when the old squaws saw him, they stopped their plaintive howl and
sent up a sudden shrill note of triumph. In a moment Paul was in a ring of
ghastly old faces, in every one of which snapped a pair of cruel black
eyes. Then the old women began to push him about, to pinch him, and to
strike him, and they showed incredible activity.

Thoroughly angry and in much pain, Paul struck at the hideous hags; but
they