"Eat and drink," said Apukwa, coldly, as soon as he became silent, "for we are going to tie thee. We must hunt the deer, we must grind the corn; we cannot watch thee every day till the time of the sacrifice comes. Eat and drink, then, for here are the thongs."
Walter glared at him for a moment, and then snatched up a gourd filled with water, which the brother of the Snake had brought, draining it with a long and eager draught. He then cast it from him, and stood still and stern before them, saying: "I will disappoint you. Henceforth I will eat no more. Tie me if you will. I can fast as well as you Indians."
The two men looked in each other's face, apparently puzzled how to act, for if he kept his resolution their object would indeed be frustrated. The death of their kinsman, according to their superstition, required blood, and by starvation the prisoner would escape from their hands. Still they dared not disobey the decision of the chiefs. A slight sign seemed to pass between them, and taking hold of the poor lad somewhat roughly, they bound both his hands and feet, twining the strong thongs of deerskin round and round, and through and through, in what seemed inextricable knots. He stood quite still and impassive, and when they had done, cast himself down upon the ground again, turning his face from them. The two men gazed at him for a moment or two, and then leaving the hut in silence, replaced the bar.
For some time after they had gone, Walter lay just as he had fallen. The dead apathy of despair had taken, possession of him. Life, thought, feeling, was a burden. The many days which had passed in that dull, dark, silent abode was rapidly producing on his mind that effect which solitary confinement is said to occasion but too often.
He lay in that deathlike stillness for several hours; nor came there a sound of any kind during all that time to relieve the black monotony of the day. His ear, by suffering, had been rendered painfully acute, but the snow fell noiselessly, the wild animals were in their coverts or in their dens, the very wind had no breath.
Suddenly there was a sound. What was it? It seemed a cracking branch, far up above his head. Then a stone rolled down and rattled over the roof, making the snow slip before it. Another crashing branch, and then a silence which seemed to him to last for hours. "Some panther or catamount," he thought, "in the trees above," and he laid his half-raised head down again upon the ground.
No! There were fingers on the bar. He heard it move! Had the Indians come back to urge the food upon him? The touch upon the bar, however, seemed feeble compared with theirs. It lifted the heavy bar of wood slowly and with difficulty. Walter's heart beat--visions came before his mind--hope flickered up, and he raised himself as well as he could into a sitting posture. From the ground he could not rise, for his hands were tied.
Slowly and quietly the door opened, the light rushed in, and in the midst of the blaze stood the beautiful figure of the Blossom, with her head partly turned away, as if in the act of listening. Her curly, long, wavy hair, broken from its band, and spotted with the white snow, fell almost to her feet. But little was the clothing that she wore. No mantle, no overdress, nothing but the Indian woman's embroidered skirt, gathered round her by a belt, and leaving the arms and legs bare. Her hands were torn and bloody, her bright face and brow scratched by the fangs of the bramble, but still to Walter Prevost, as she stood listening there, it was the loveliest sight his eyes had ever rested on.
But for a moment she listened, then gazed into the hut, sprang forward, cast her arms around his neck, and wept as she had never wept before.
