he two canoes stole away upon the broad bosom of the river and
presently disappeared in the pearly moon-mists, the one always hugging
the wake of the other. The weird call of the loon sometimes sounded
close by. The air was heavy with the smell of water, of earth, and of
resin.

Three of these men had taken the way from which no man returns.

CHAPTER XXVII

ONONDAGA

The Oneida village lay under the grey haze of a chill September night.
Once or twice a meteor flashed across the vault of heaven; and the
sharp, clear stars lighted with magic fires the pure crystals of the
first frost. The hoot of an owl rang out mournfully in answer to the
plaintive whine of the skulking panther. A large hut stood in the
center of the clearing. The panther whined again and the owl hooted.
The bear-skin door of the hut was pushed aside and a hideous face
peered forth. There was a gutteral call, and a prowling cur slunk in.

Within the hut, which was about twenty feet square, men, women and
children had packed themselves. The air was foul, and the smoke from
the blazing pine knots, having no direct outlet, rolled and curled and
sank. The savages sprawled around the fire, bragging and boasting and
lying as was their wont of an evening. Near-by the medicine man,
sorcerer so-called, beat upon a drum in the interest of science and
rattled bears' claws in a tortoise-shell. A sick man lay huddled in
skins at the farthest end of the hut. His friends and relatives gave
him scant attention. Indians were taught to scorn pity. Drawings on
the walls signified that this was the house of the Tortoise.

Four white men sat among them; sat doggedly in defeat. Gallantry is a
noble quality when joined to wisdom and foresight; alone, it leads into
pits and blind alleys. And these four men recognized with no small
bitterness the truth of this aphorism. They had been ambushed scarce
four hours from Quebec by a baud of marauding Oneidas. Only Jean
Pauquet had escaped. They had been captives now for several weeks.
Rage had begun to die out, fury to subside; apathy seized them in its
listless embrace. Heavy, unkempt beards adorned their faces, and their
hair lay tangled and matted upon their shoulders. They were all
pictures of destitution, and especially the whilom debonair poet. His
condition was almost pitiable. Some knavish rascal had thrust burdocks
into his hair and another had smeared his face with balsam sap. He had
thras