In deference to their rank, the crowd had made way for the chiefs in whose company he was. At a sign from Sitting Bull, it now gave way further, and Vipan was able to approach within easy speaking-distance of the prisoners.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr Vipan, save me from torture! Kill me—put me out of my misery at once!”
Vipan stared at the utterer of this agonised prayer. In the distorted features, cut and bruised out of all knowledge, and livid with the dews of bodily and mental anguish, in the strained eyeballs staring from their sockets in deadly fear, he could hardly recognise the unfortunate Geoffry Vallance.
A curious change passed over the adventurer’s face, so curious that even many of the Indians standing around noticed it and wondered.
“I am the last person in this world, of whom you ought to ask a benefit,” he said curtly.
Had there been time for reflection, poor Geoffry might well have been amazed. Now, half-frenzied with terror, he only moaned:
“Save me from the torture! Kill me, that is all I ask you!”
“I cannot if I would,” was the answer, in a more relenting tone. “How did you manage to let them capture you?”
“It was the day the camp was taken,” gasped the wretched prisoner. “I was lingering behind and got lost, and then my horse ran away when I was dismounted. I don’t know how it was, but I looked up and found myself in the middle of the Indians.”
“Well, I can do nothing for you. Mind me, though. I knew a chap in your position once. He managed to roll his tongue back into his throat and choke himself. He escaped the fire that way. Try it. It’s your only chance.”