Seated on the floor in a row, with their backs against the wall of the hut, and bound hand and foot were his old enemies Bounding Bull, Little Tim and his big son, and Whitewing, the prairie chief. In a corner lay a man with closed eyes, clasped hands, and a face, the ashy paleness of which indicated the near approach of death, if not its actual presence. In him he at once recognised the preacher, who, years ago, had directed his youthful mind to Jesus, the Saviour of mankind.

 

In front of these stood one of the warriors of his own nation, brandishing a tomahawk, and apparently threatening instant destruction to Little Tim, who, to do him justice, met the scowls and threats of the savage with an unflinching gaze. There was, however, no touch of pride or defiance in Tim’s look, but in the frowns of Bounding Bull and Big Tim we feel constrained to say that there were both pride and defiance. Several Blackfoot Indians stood beside the prisoners with knives in their hands, ready at a moment’s notice to execute their leader’s commands. Rushing River knew that leader to be one of the fiercest and most cruel of his tribe. Softswan was seated at the feet of the missionary, with her face bowed upon her knees. She was not bound, but a savage stood near to watch her. Whitewing’s old mother sat or rather crouched, close to her.

 

What had already passed Rushing River of course could only guess. Of what followed his ears and eyes took note.

 

“You look very brave just now,” said the Blackfoot leader, “but I will make you change your looks before I take your scalps to dry in the Blackfoot wigwams.”

 

“You had better take our lives at once,” said Big Tim fiercely, “else we will begin to think that we have had the mischance to fall into the hands of cowardly squaws.”

 

“Wah!” exclaimed Bounding Bull, with a nod of assent as he directed a look of scorn at his adversary.

 

“Tush, tush, boy,” said Little Tim to his son reprovingly, in an undertone. “It ill becomes a man with white blood in his veins, an’ who calls hisself a Christian, to go boastin’ like an or’nary savage. I thowt I had thrashed that out of ’ee when ye was a small boy.”

 

“Daddy,” remonstrated Big Tim, “is not Softswan sittin’ there at his marcy?”

 

“No, lad, no. We are at the marcy of the Lord, an’ His marcies are everlastin’.”

 

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