Salute to Adventurers by John Buchan
page 292 of 313 (93%)
page 292 of 313 (93%)
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I had a vision of Elspeth's birthday party when we sat round the Governor's table, and I had wondered dismally how long it would be before our pleasant songs would be turned to mourning. The fires died down, the smoke thinned, and the full moon rising over the crest of the hills poured her light on us. The torches flickered insolently in that calm radiance. The voice, too, grew lower and the incantation ceased. Then it began again in the Indian tongue, and the whole host rose to their feet. Muckle John, like some old priest of Diana, flung up his arms to the heavens, and seemed to be invoking his strange gods. Or he may have been blessing his flock--I know not which. Then he turned and strode back to his tent, just as he had done on that night in the Cauldstaneslap.... A hand was laid on my arm and Onotawah stood by me. He motioned me to follow him, and led me past the smoking altar to a row of painted white stones around the great wigwam. This he did not cross, but pointed to the tent door, I pushed aside the flap and entered. An Indian lamp--a wick floating in oil--stood on a rough table. But its thin light was unneeded, for the great flood of moonshine, coming through the slits of the skins, made a clear yellow twilight. By it I marked the figure of Muckle John on his knees. "Good evening to you, Mr. Gib," I said. The figure sprang to its feet and strode over to me. "Who are ye," it cried, "who speaks a name that is no more spoken on |
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