“Yes, yes,” cried the Canadian, looking with indescribable tenderness at him who called him father, “it will be one means of never being separated.” And he held out to Fabian his hand trembling with emotion, which the latter kissed respectfully.
“Now,” said Bois-Rose, “whatever happens we shall not be separated. God will do the rest, and we shall try to save this unlucky man.”
“To work then!” said Fabian.
“Not yet, my child; let us see what these red demons are about to do.”
Meanwhile the Indians had ranged themselves in two lines, and the white man was placed a little in advance of them.
“I see what they are going to do,” said Bois-Rose, “they are going to try if the poor wretch’s legs are better than his arms. They are about to chase him.”
“How so?” said Fabian.
“They will place their captive a little in advance, then at a given signal he will run. Then all the Indians will run after him, lance and hatchet in hand. If the white is quick enough to reach the river before them, we will call to him to swim to us. Some shots will protect him, and he may reach here safe and sound. But if terror paralyses his limbs, as it did his hands just now, the foremost Indian will break his head with a blow from a hatchet. In any case we shall do our best.”
At this moment the five other Indians returned armed from head to foot, and now joined the rest. Fabian looked with profound compassion at the unlucky white man, who with haggard eye, and features distorted by terror, waited in horrible anguish until the signal was given. But the Blackbird pointed to the bare feet of his warriors, and then to the leather buskins which protected the feet of the white man. They then saw the latter sit down and take them off slowly, as if to gain a few seconds.
“The demons!” cried Fabian.