But she closed with him, and the two knives sank home at the same instant. Hers pierced de Veulle to the heart. His drove to the hilt into her right breast, and she staggered back, coughing blood, against the rigid form of Ta-wan-ne-ars, bound fast to the stake.
"Ga-ha-no—was not—worthy of—Ta-wan-ne-ars," she gasped as her head slipped down his chest. "It—is—better—so."
No torture could have distorted his face into the image of frenzied despair which it displayed as he strove uselessly to bend down to her.
"My Lost Soul!" he muttered. "Oh, Ha-wen-ne-yu, my Lost Soul! Oh, Great Spirit, my Lost Soul!"
Marjory crept nearer to me, the horror in her face turning to pity, the tears streaming from her eyes.
"The poor lass!" she cried softly. "The poor, brave lass!"
XXVIII
THE MIGHT AT THE LONG HOUSE
The silence of consternation gripped the hordes of the Keepers of the Trail. The sea of painted, scowling faces exhibited one frozen expression of awe at the suddenness of the tragedy. Only Murray gave no indication of feeling as he knelt by de Veulle's side.
"Where is Black Robe?" I whispered to Marjory, shivering on my shoulder.