“Why do you wait?” he added, stolidly. “I tell you I am ready!”
“It is well,” said Wy-an-da. “The white hunter is a brave man. He shall die thus: he will be hung by a lasso, head downward, from the branch of that tree there that reaches out over the laughing waters. Then the Indian that can throw his tomahawk the truest will cut the lasso, and the white man will fall down and the laughing waters will sweep him over the rocks. Then his body will be dashed to pieces on the sharp stones below! Is it pleasant to think of? Will the pale-face be brave?”
This speech was greeted by a chorus of satisfied grunts from the savages.
A shudder ran through Vere’s frame and his spirits sunk as he heard the chief pronounce his fearful doom; but it was only for a moment. Then he appeared calm and apparently unmoved.
A more diabolical torture could not well be conceived.
It was terrible—this standing face to face with death; but the young hunter showed no signs of fear.
Five minutes later he was swinging, head downward, over that black flood hastening on with a wild roar to the precipice below.
The chill autumn wind, wailing in fitful gusts through the forest trees, his body gave an oscillating motion, and it seemed, as he swayed at that dizzy height, as if every vibration would precipitate him into the water below.
After the lasso was securely fastened to the protruding branch, the Indians drew back about twenty paces from their swinging victim and prepared for their trial of skill in hurling the tomahawk.
Each was anxious to have the first throw.