“Burn him!” shouted another.
“No, no,” said a third; “don’t imitate them villains; don’t be cruel. Let’s shoot him.”
“Shoot ’im,” cried Pièrre; “Oui, dat is de ting; it too goot pour lui, mais, it shall be dooed.”
“Don’t ye think, lads, it would be better to let the poor wretch off?” said Dick Varley; “he’d p’raps give a good account o’ us to his people.”
There was a universal shout of contempt at this mild proposal. Unfortunately, few of the men sent on this exploring expedition were imbued with the peacemaking spirit of their chief; and most of them seemed glad to have a chance of venting their hatred of the poor Indians on this unhappy wretch, who although calm, looked sharply from one speaker to another, to gather hope, if possible, from the tones of their voices.
Dick was resolved at the risk of a quarrel with Pièrre to save the poor man’s life, and had made up his mind to insist on having him conducted to the camp to be tried by Cameron, when one of the men suggested that they should take the savage to the top of a hill about three miles further on, and there hang him up on a tree as a warning to all his tribe.
“Agreed, agreed,” cried the men; “come on.”
Dick, too, seemed to agree to this proposal, and hastily ordered Crusoe to run on ahead with the savage, an order which the dog obeyed so vigorously that before the men had done laughing at him, he was a couple of hundred yards ahead of them.
“Take care that he don’t get off!” cried Dick, springing on Charlie and stretching out at a gallop.
In a moment he was beside the Indian. Scraping together the little of the Indian language he knew, he stooped down, and, cutting the thongs that bound him, said—“Go, white men love the Indians.”