In a few moments the fits ceased, and then Ralph got up and looked at Little Deer and laughed.
The look was vacant, the laugh was without mirth. The boy, for the time being, was insane.
A little snake, fortunately of a harmless species, crossed their path at this moment, and with a childish laugh the boy pounced upon it, and began to play with it, passing it through his hands and around his neck.
Little Deer shook his head slowly with a strange reverential expression on his face, and taking the boy by the hand he led him back to the camp, for an insane person is as sacred as a god to the red men.
The camp was astir when he entered it, and the Indians all looked upwards toward the sky when they glanced at the boy, but Van Dorn, furious with rage, cried out:
“Why did you not kill him?”
“I could not,” said Little Deer.
“Then I will,” cried Van Dorn, and drew a knife from his belt as he turned upon the boy, but with a united cry of the deepest horror every red man clustered around the boy with drawn weapons.
“He is touched,” they said. “You must not harm him or the happy hunting grounds would never open to us.”
“Touched!” shrieked the ferocious villain. “By what?”