about the height of a man's head. A band of warriors
then come and dance wildly round this pole, and each
one in succession goes up to the raw liver and bites a
piece off it, without, however, putting his hands near
it. Such is the dog-dance, and to such was poor Crusoe
destined by his fierce captors, especially by the one
whose throat still bore very evident marks of his teeth.
But Crusoe was much too clever a dog to be disposed
of in so disgusting a manner. He had privately resolved
in his own mind that he would escape; but the