The Hunter was to be punished by running the gantlet. He had to run through that lane while everybody took a whack at him as he passed; but when he came to the other end he was safe. Unless he was smart he would be well beaten.
Old Shingis plucked knife and hatchet from him, and shoved him forward to the entrance to the lane. Pontiac was watching.
“Now we see how fast a little bear runs,” said King Shingis. “Go in Mingo; come out Delaware, get hurt no more. Run!” And with another shove would have started him off.
But the Hunter had not waited to be shoved. In a great bound he had torn free and had ducked past the first two or three double files, who missed him entirely with their switches. On he sped, ducking, dodging, diving—stung with switches and battered at by hasty clubs, amid wild shouts and laughter.
He was more than half way when he dimly saw his chance. Just ahead an old Indian was waiting straddled and bent over, to land a good blow upon him. The Hunter suddenly ducked lower; right under between the old Indian’s legs he dived—up rose the Indian, down he came, but the Hunter was beyond, and outside the gantlet and scudding like a deer for those gates.
The lane scattered. A few of the Indians ran to head him off and hit him. These he dodged; they and the other Indians were not much in earnest now, anyway; he tore through a little knot of men at the gate and was inside. He had gained sanctuary, but when he stopped for breath he felt that he had been given a sound thrashing just the same, and had twisted his ankle. Maybe Pontiac would be satisfied with all that.
French officers were saying: “Smart little boy! Brave leetle fellow,” in French and English. Then he heard another voice in English:
“Hurt you?”
He looked. This was a white boy, about his size but maybe somewhat older, rather battered up and limping with a stick.
“No,” Robert answered.