But his heart sank to the uttermost depths when he looked at the warriors.
By day they seemed more brutal and pitiless than at night. From their
long, narrow eyes shone no ray of mercy, and the ghastly paint on their
high cheek bones deepened their look of ferocity. It was not the
appearance of the warriors alone, it was more the deed for which they were
preparing that appalled Paul. They were raking dead leaves and fallen
brushwood of last year around a small but stout sapling, and they went on
with their task in a methodical way.

Paul knew well, too well. Hideous tales of such doings had come now and
then to his ears, but he had never dreamed that he, Paul Cotter, in his
own person would be such a victim. Even now it seemed incredible in the
face of this beautiful young world that stretched away from him, so quiet
and so peaceful. He, who already in his boyhood was planning great things
for this splendid land, to die such a death!

The warriors did not cease until their task was finished. It was but a
brief one after all, for Paul had made no mistake in his guess. There was
not time, perhaps, to take a prisoner beyond the Ohio, and they could not
forego a savage pleasure. They dragged the hoy to the sapling, stood him
erect against the slim trunk, and hound him fast with green withes. Then
they piled the dead leaves and brushwood high about him above his knees,
and, this done, stood a little way off and looked at their work.

The warriors spoke together for the first time since Paul had awakened,
and their black eyes lighted up with a hideous glow of anticipation. Paul
saw it, and an icy chill ran through all his veins. Had not the green
withes held him, he would have fallen to the ground. Once more his active
mind, foreseeing all that would come, had dissolved his strength for the