The renegade rose to his feet, his eyes gleaming like a demon’s, and a livid mark upon his face, where the knuckles of the young man had bruised the skin.
“You shall pay dearly for that blow!” Girty cried, between his clenched teeth. “You shall die at the torture-stake, a thousand deaths all in one. The tomahawks of the Indians will cut your flesh from your bones, even while you are a living man. You will cry aloud for death to come to end your misery. And in your last moments the thought will come that this fair girl—whom I guess you love—will be wholly in my power—a helpless victim to my caprices. And as you die in lingering torments, I will stand by your side and taunt you till death releases you from my power.”
Words can but feebly describe the waked wrath of the renegade.
Winthrop faced him undauntedly.
“It suits your cowardly nature better to taunt a helpless prisoner than to face a free man. I do love this girl, and the thought that she is helpless in your power, demon that you are, gives me greater pain than can all the fire and torture of the red devils with whom you claim kindred. I am your captive. Look well to me; see that I do not escape from you, for it would cost you your life if I should ever again regain my freedom.”
Every muscle in the young man’s form swelled with indignation as he spoke.
“When you cease to be my captive, death will claim you,” replied Girty, grimly.
Kate looked around her. She saw no avenue of escape. She felt that they were hopelessly lost.
“Come,” said Girty; “but first bind the wrists of these two squaws.”
The Indians obeyed his order.