“This is nothing to look at,” pointing to the squirming bundles of clothes rapidly being consumed by the flames. “These people of whom I am telling you exhibited a marvellous courage and endurance. That is the Indian fashion. But, see you, faith of Jean Ameron, that was something to laugh at. Their agony lasted six hours, during which they never ceased to sing their own warlike deeds. Four brothers, they were, the largest and handsomest men I ever saw.”
“Burned to death?” inquired the soldier.
“No, not precisely that. It was a form of torment the Indians themselves have invented. They were tied to stakes, driven deep into the earth, and every one of our savage allies, aye, and some Frenchmen, too—in truth, I myself also took part in the affair, and it requires courage to touch an Iroquois—even when tied to a stake he might get loose, and their looks are like those of demons. Every one of us, believe you, armed himself with a piece of iron heated red-hot, with which we scorched all the bodies of the heathens from head to foot.”
“Yes, fault of me, too-well treated were those pagans,” interrupted a sunburnt voyageur, whose head was adorned with waving red feathers, “Drinking brandy that disappeared down their throats as quickly as though it had been poured into a hole made in the earth. They were provided with all they desired.”
“Bah! that explains itself; the brandy was to deaden their sufferings,” added a woman standing by. “Better chance had those heathens than many Christians. The Fathers baptized them, addressing merely a few brief words of exhortation (for to do more would be merely washing a death’s head), and free from their sins they ascended straight to Heaven.”
Suddenly, while trade and amusement were in the full tide of activity, high above the babble of chattering and bargaining and the echo of jovial laughter rose the death-cry. Instantly every sound and motion ceased; it was as though a sudden spell had fallen upon the busy gathering, an awed, breathless silence. Once, twice, eight times it was heard, rising and falling in weird cadences. Its significance was perfectly comprehended by the listeners, most of whom were habituated to modes of savage warfare. This was the signal given by a war-party returning in triumph with the scalps of eight enemies. Every man snatched his weapon, and for a time all was confusion. Among the authorities hurriedly whispered consultations took place, then, inspired by a sudden and irresistible impulse, soldiers, priests, traders, Indians, women and children, all rushed off in the direction whence the sound proceeded.
A man of gigantic stature, painted, greased and feathered like an Indian, and almost as swarthy of complexion, strode forward with a majestic air of composure, as though enjoying a happy sense of his own importance. In one hand he held eight long sticks from which were suspended a like number of lank waving tresses. In front of him, tied together like children in leading strings, walked two squaws with downcast eyes, whose resigned and stoical countenances looked as though carved out of wood.
“Who can this be?” each one asked his neighbor. “He is one of ours, a Frenchman.”
Suddenly among the voyageurs a cry arose.
“It is Dubocq, or his spirit—no, it is Dubocq, yes, truly, Dubocq!” Then they raised a resounding shout of welcome—“Vive Dubocq! our brave Dubocq, our champion against our enemies!”