But the prisoner released, the man, the spirit himself, stood as before, supported in Storm's arms, rather bewildered than hurt. "It wasn't so very bad?" Storm whispered to him.
"Why," answered the American, "you don't say I'm dead?"
"There is no death," said Storm, "except for your poor body. Come away; here is your mother waiting to take you home."
Rain pointed out the prisoner next for trial, young Crittenden. "He isn't old enough to go on the war trail," she said. "A boy, and such a dear lad! O Rising Wolf, this will awaken your soul—or your soul is dead. My man and I pray for him. Oh, can't you say one little prayer?"
Crittenden drew a white bean, so Rain's prayer was answered.
"I am glad of that," said Rising Wolf. "He seems a decent lad."
Crittenden gave his white bean to the middle-aged man who stood next upon his left. "You have a wife and children," he was saying, his tongue so dried by fear that he could scarcely speak. "I haven't. I can afford to risk another chance."
"O Mighty Power," Rain cried, "O Morning Star, Son of the All-Father, help him! Help him!"
Storm came behind Crittenden, trying to guide his hand. "Rain," he shouted, "help me to guide his hand! Quick!"
Crittenden put his hand into the bag.