“Let him go,” said Joy, “and he shall pay you store of wampompeag and colored cloth.  Of what use can it be to you to put him to a horrid death?”

“Wampompeag and colored cloth are good, but Sassacus is a great chief, and they cannot make him forget an injury.  Before the white men came, his ancestors punished and rewarded, and he will not surrender the prerogative of his family.”

“By the bones of my father,” swore the soldier, “I will not permit this cold-blooded murder.  Hated I him ten-fold more than I do, I would defend his life at the hazard of my own.  Where is my gun?” he demanded fiercely, seeking after it.  “Who has dared to remove it?”

“Sassacus took it away, that his brother might do no mischief with it,” said the Pequot.

“False Indian!” exclaimed the soldier, passionately; “call me not again your brother.  I will have nothing to do with one whose promises cannot bind, and who loves revenge more than honor.”

“Sassacus never breaks his word, but, if he did, it would be only imitating the white men.  Would my brother speak to my prisoner, whom, at this moment, he loves more than the justice of an Indian?”

“Why should I speak to him, when I should hear only curses?”

“Then remain here to behold the punishment of the bad white man.”

He strode out of the lodge, while the soldier, burning with indignation, disposed himself so that, unseen, he might notice all that was done, and determined, unarmed as he was, to interpose.

Presently Sassacus re-appeared, emerging from the larger lodge, followed by the Assistant, whose arms were bound again, and who was conducted by two savages, holding him by either arm.  They led him straight to the pile around the stake, which the Chief ordered to be lighted, and whose billowy flames were kept rolling up by additions, from time to time, of the dry wood which lay in abundance around.  Seated on a log not far from the fire, whose heat might indeed be felt, Sassacus commanded his prisoner to be brought before him.

“Bad white man,” he said, “look on yon flames!  Are they like that hell which thy powaws say is prepared for such as thou?”

Spikeman turned his ghastly face away from the blaze, with a shudder, but he said nothing.

“The white man is silent,” said Sassacus.  “He acknowledges the justice of his doom.  Lead him to the fire.”

Spikeman, notwithstanding the horror of his situation, succeeded in a measure in concealing his feelings, and, affecting an indifference to his fate, advanced a few steps with the two Indians, who held his arms, when, suddenly making a violent effort, he burst the withes with which he was carelessly bound, and, throwing them both off, started to run.  The opportunity had probably been given purposely by the savages, for their diversion, and in order to protract the terrors of the captive, and knowing that flight was impossible.