Unbroken sunlight, Miles was first aware of,—sunlight dazzling from the hot sky, beating upward from blue water, glaring on green pines that spread away beyond; and then, as the dissonant calls that made his whole body quiver drew his eyes to the right, he saw in the stretch of meadow-land between the creek and the ridge a squalid group of unkempt bark wigwams. The smoke that curled upward from their cone-like summits seemed to waver in the heat, and for an instant Miles blinked stupidly at the smoke, because he dared not look lower where he must see the varied company of coppery people who were flocking noisily forth from their shelters.
Of a sudden, as if starting from a bad dream, he writhed out of his captor's hold and dropped to his feet in the sand. The Indian's grasp tightened instantly on his arm; but in any case, whatever they meant to do to him, even to kill him, it was better to walk into Manomet than to be carried thither like a little child. Where there might be other lads, too, it went through Miles's head, even in the midst of his sick fear.
Other boys there were, certainly, squaws and warriors too, all thronging jabbering round him, so that, with a poor hope that he at least might prove friendly, Miles clung tight to the hand of the Indian who had carried him. Wolfish yelp of dogs, shrill, frightened cries of children, clatter of the curious squaws,—all deafened and bewildered him. Close about him he beheld crowding figures,—bare bodies that gleamed in the sunlight, swarthy, grim faces, eyes alert with curiosity,—and, overarching them all, the hot, blue sky that blinded him.
Along with their Indian masters ran dogs, prick-eared, fox-like curs, one of which suddenly darted upon Trug. Above the chatter of the curious folk Miles heard the currish yelp, the answering snarl; but ere he could cry out or move, the old civilized mastiff caught the savage cur by the scruff, and, shaking the life out of his mangy body, flung him on the sand.
Miles let go the Indian's hand, and cast himself upon his dog, while his mind rushed back to a dreadful day in England, when Trug had slain a farmer's tike, whose owner had threatened to brain "the curst brute"; people did not like to have your dog kill their dog, Miles remembered with terror; so, catching Trug by the collar, he buffeted his head, a punishment which the old fellow, with his tushes still gleaming, endured meekly.
The Indians, who had been pressing round him, had shrunk back a little, Miles perceived, as he paused for breath; they could not be used to big mastiffs. "The dog will not worry you," he addressed the company in a propitiating voice. "That is, he won't worry you unless you harm Dolly and me."
They could not understand his words, he realized, but they could understand gestures, so with a bold front he gripped Trug's collar, and urged the old dog, still grumbling, along with him. He walked bravely too, with his chin high and his neck stiff, for all there was a fluttering sensation up and down his legs. He was not afraid, he assured himself, while he pressed his hand upon Trug's warm neck for comfort, and fixed his eyes on the tall warrior striding before him who still bore Dolly.
Suddenly Miles perceived the press about him to give way a little, and out from amidst the people an old man came gravely toward him. He was a tall old man, with a wrinkly face, and his dress was squalid and scanty as that of the others, but by the many beads of white bone that hung on his bare breast, Miles judged him to be the chief of Manomet, Canacum. So he made his most civil bow, though he could not keep his knees from trembling a bit; but he looked up courageously into the old Indian's face, and, as he did not speak first, at length politely bade him "Cowompaum sin."
He could not understand—indeed, apprehensive as he was, he scarcely had the wit to try to understand—what was said to him in reply, but he knew the old man took him by the hand, so in tremulous obedience he went whither he was led.