“We will give the white hunter to the laughing waters,” said Wy-an-da. “He must die!”
“He must die!”
The four Indians repeated these three ominous words in a hoarse chorus, and began to circle slowly around the captive, brandishing their tomahawks and knives furiously and screaming the wild scalp-halloo of their tribe.
Several minutes passed thus, Vere standing in the circle of screeching braves calm and unmoved; then all became suddenly silent, standing still and dropping their hands by their sides as if moved by a common impulse.
“Is the pale-face ready to die?” asked Wy-an-da.
“I have said that I do not fear death!” replied the young hunter, calmly. “I am ready!”
The last faint ray of hope was extinguished now. He was bound and helpless—they could do with him as they would; and as calmly as possible he resigned himself to his fate—the horrible fate that seemed inevitable!
“Wy-an-da will tell the pale-face hunter how he must die,” said the chief. “It is not a pleasant death. He will be afraid. His heart will grow small within his bosom and his face will be white as the snow in winter. He will not like to die so. Will he be brave at the last moment?”
“I tell you I am ready to die!” shouted Vere.
He knew that the savage was trying to torture him, and he would not let him see what pain it really gave him—the anticipation of this sudden and terrible departure from the life that had just begun to seem so happy to him.