“What does it mean?” McElroy was thinking wildly; “why does she not save him while there is time?” And, even as the words went through his brain, something snapped therein and he was conscious of the circle of faces in the forest edge waving in grotesque undulations, of the arm of Maren as it straightened forward, of the flash of the hatchet as it flew for the painted post, and then of great darkness sewn with a thousand stars.
As Maren had raised her hand for the throw, from somewhere out of the darkness behind the fire a stone death-maul had hurtled, aimed at her wrist, but he who threw was sorry of sight as a drunken man, for it struck the head of McElroy instead and he sagged down against the moosehide thongs, even as the hatchet once more clicked snugly in its former cleft.
Then from all the concourse there went up a shout, half in anger and half in wild applause.
“Nik-o-men-wa!” they cried; “the Thrower of the Seven Tribes! But the White Doe plays with the decree of Gitche Manitou! Bring the spear! Fetch forth the spears, oh, Men of Wisdom!”
But in the midst of the excitement a figure walked slowly forth in the light and held up a hand for silence.
It was Edmonton Ridgar.
Reluctantly they obeyed, sullenly, as if bound by a bond against their will.
In the sudden hush he spoke.
“What do ye here, my brothers?” he asked, and waited.
There was no reply from the mass before him.