He struck a tree, freed himself from the strangler, and collapsed in a heap.
Dimly some sort of light reddened around him. People were feeding a fire. The hollow glade in which he lay swam like a mirage before him.
About the fire circled a dozen or so of very old Indians. They were so absorbed in the ritual of their dance that they ignored the presence of the other group of younger Indians who had brought in the prisoners. Prisoners were a minor thing and of no importance compared with this ceremony, which must not be interrupted.
The old Indians went round and round and round and round, without words, without music, without sound of any kind. Their hands were weaponless, their gestures were as one.
Dizzied and dumfounded by this circular marching, Doby closed his eyes and waited for death by violence.
Vigo and the two voyageurs were in the same plight. Yet none of them was gagged or bound or weaponless. Their captors did not rush forward in triumph with their prey, nor give the conqueror's war-whoop.
They stayed half hidden in the background. Their one desire seemed to be to keep the silence unbroken.
The voyageurs, rough adventurers, soon recovered from the surprise of their capture, and stood lightly poised either to fight or to run.
Escape was the first thought in their minds. Their expression soon changed from shock to curiosity; from curiosity to wide-eyed incredulity.