The two who advanced approached the hut, following each other so closely that the foot of each trod in the step of the other; and when they reached the lodge, the foremost took down the bar and opened the door, suffering the light to enter the dark chamber within. The spectacle which that light displayed was a very painful one.
There, seated on the ground, with his head almost bent down to his knees, his brown hair falling wild and shaggy over his face, his dress soiled, and in some parts torn, and his hands thin and sallow, sat poor Walter Prevost, the image of despair. All the bright energies of his eager, impetuous nature seemed quelled; the look of happy, youthful enjoyment was altogether gone; and with it the warm hopes and glowing aspirations, the dreams of future happiness or greatness, of love, and joy, and tenderness. The sunshine had departed; the motes of existence no longer danced in the beam.
He lifted not his head when the Indians entered; still and impassible as themselves, he sat without movement or word; the very senses seemed dead in the living tomb where they had confined him. But the sight touched them with no pity.
Grazing at him with a curious, cunning, serpent-like look, Apukwa placed before him a wallet which he carried, containing some dried deer's-flesh and parched Indian corn; and, after having watched him for a moment without a change of countenance, he said, in a cold tone--"There is food--take it and eat."
As if the sound of his hated voice had startled the youth from a death-like sleep, Walter sprang suddenly to his feet, exclaiming,--
"Why should I eat, to prolong my misery? Slay me! Take thy tomahawk and dash my brains out! Put an end to this torment, the most terrible that thy fiend-like race have ever devised!"
The two Indians laughed with a low, quiet, satisfied laugh.
"We cannot slay thee," said the brother of the Snake, "till we know that thy pale-face brother who killed our brother, cannot be found to take thy place."
"He is far beyond your power," cried Walter vehemently; "he will never be within your grasp. I helped him to escape; I delivered him from you. Slay me, slay me, dogs of Indians! Your hearts are wolves' hearts; you are not men, you are women who dare not use a tomahawk. You are the scoff of your enemies. They laugh at the Oneidas; they spit at them. They say they are children, who dare not kill an enemy till the old men say, 'Kill him.' They fear the rod of their chief. They are like hares and rabbits, that tremble at the sound of the wind."
It was in vain that he tried to provoke them. They only seemed to enjoy his agony, and the bitter words that it called forth.