We landed in a medley.  Indians sprang from the squatting groups around the fire and ran to meet us.  They were black shapes that I could not recognize.  I leaped from my canoe and held up my hand in greeting.  But an arm reached out and tore my musket from me.  I looked up.  A leering Iroquois stood over me.

I dropped my arms and stood passive.  A look over my shoulder told me that Pierre and Starling had been seized and were fighting well.

“Caution!” I called.  “Do not resist.  Watch me.”

“Where are we?  What does it mean?” Starling called back.  His voice was shaking.

I held out my arms to be bound.  “The Iroquois!” I shouted to Pierre in dialect.  “I did not know there were any within a thousand miles.  Keep steady.  Follow me.  We may find Pemaou here.”

The Indians bound us systematically, but without undue elation, so that I judged that they had many captives.  They were Senecas and had the look of picked men.  I understood their speech, but beyond ribald jests at our expense they said nothing.  It was all swift, unreal.  Owls hooted in the woods and dogs snarled at us.  The groups that remained by the fire peered in our direction, but were too lethargic to come near.  I tried for a word with Starling.  I feared for his spirit.

“They are Senecas,” I managed to say to him; “the most diplomatic nation of the Iroquois league.  They will not butcher us without consideration.  Keep cool.”

He nodded with some patronage.  He looked impressive, unshaken; yet the moment before he had been terror-stricken.  I saw that I did not understand him, after all.

Having bound us, our captors raised a shout and shouldered us toward the camp.  A young brave capered before us, beating his breast and singing.  The braves by the fire took up the cry.

And so we were pushed into the circle of flaming light.  The Indians crowded to us, and pressed their oily, grinning faces so near that I felt their breath.  I stumbled over refuse, and dirt-crusted dogs blocked my way.  The mangled carcass of a deer lay on the ground, and the stench of fresh blood mingled with the reek of the camp.  Yet I saw only one thing clearly.  In the midst of it stood the woman and Singing Arrow.

My relief caught at my throat, and the cry I gave was hoarse and strangled.  But the woman heard it.  My first look had shown me not only that she was unharmed, but that she was undaunted, that she stood white-faced in all the grime, and held herself above it, a thing of spirit that soil could not reach.  Yet when she saw me, the cry that came from her in answer changed her from an effigy to something so warm and living that I forgot where I stood, and stopped my breath to hold her gaze to mine, and drink the moment to the full.  We stood with captivity between us and torture at our elbow, but the woman looked only at me, and her lips grew red and tremulous, and her breath came fast.  “You are safe.  You are safe.”  I heard the words even among the babel, and I pulled like a wild animal at my bonds to free myself and reach her side.