THE THREE captives, on awakening, regarded their captors with looks of anxiety. They tried to read their fate in those dusky faces, but in vain.

There was a little conversation between the chief and an elderly Indian, who proved to be an interpreter, having a fair knowledge of the English language for an Indian, and then the latter approached our three friends.

He singled out Dr. Spooner as the supposed head of the party, and to him addressed himself.

“White man,” he said, “the chief bids me tell you your fate.”

It need hardly be said that he had attentive listeners.

“You and you,” pointing out Brush, “may go, but your horses and guns remain with us.”

“I am very much obliged to you, colonel,” said Peter Brush, greatly relieved. “You’re welcome to the horse and rifle, and my friend, the doctor, will no doubt say the same. How soon can we go?”

“At once. You shall be unbound, and free to keep on your way to the great waters.”

“And the boy may go, too?” said the doctor, who was more cool and self-possessed than Mr. Brush, and had187 at once noted the omission to include Tom in the proposed release.

“Of course! Didn’t he say Tom, too?” said Peter Brush, hastily.

“The boy must stay!” said the Indian interpreter, gravely.

“But why must he stay? He is under my care. I can’t go without him?” said Brush, eagerly.

“White boy must stay!” repeated the Indian.

“What do you propose to do with him?” asked Dr. Spooner, uneasily.

The Indian continued:

“For more than a moon the young chief has been sick and weak. A bad spirit has entered into him and torments him.”

“But what has all this to do with Tom?” asked Brush, impatiently.

“Let him tell his story in his own way, friend Brush,” said the doctor. “We shall know soon enough.”

The interpreter continued:

“The Great Spirit is vexed. He has sent one of the bad spirits to trouble Miantonimo. He must be appealed.”

“But what has that to do with Tom?” asked Peter Brush, again.

“Hush!” said Lycurgus Spooner.

“He has revealed it to his children that Miantonimo will not get well till a white boy has been sacrificed in his stead.”

188

A look of anxiety and horror swept over the face of Dr. Spooner. Peter Brush did not seem to catch the meaning of the last words.

“Surely,” said Lycurgus, “you would not kill an innocent boy?”

“The Great Spirit has said it,” said the Indian, gravely.

“Kill Tom!” ejaculated Peter Brush, horror-stricken. “He don’t mean that, does he, doctor?”

“The boy must die!” said the interpreter.

“Then you may kill me, too, you bloody butcher!” exclaimed Peter Brush, tugging fiercely at his fettered hands.

“Calm yourself, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner. “Let me speak with the Indians. Perhaps I can convince them of their folly.”

“I’d like to argy the point myself,” said Peter.

Of course, Tom had heard all this, and the thought of the fate which seemed inevitable blanched his cheek and sent a cold chill to his heart.

What! at the age of sixteen must he die a violent death, because a young Indian boy was sick, a victim to the cruel superstition of a band of savages?

“God help me!” he murmured, with pale lips. “F............