That evening the united bands kindled
an enormous campfire and with the scalps of the dead flaunting from
spear heads danced the scalp dance, reenacting in pantomime all the
episodes of the massacre to the monotonous chant-chant, of a recitative
relating the foray. At the next camping-ground, Radisson's hair was
shaved in front and decorated on top with the war-crest of a brave.
Having translated the white man into a savage, they brought him one of
the tin looking-glasses used by Indians to signal in the sun. "I,
viewing myself all in a pickle," relates Radisson, "smeared with red
and black, covered with such a top, . . . could not but fall in love
with myself, if I had not had better instructions to shun the sin of
pride."
Radisson saw that apparent compliance with the Mohawks might win him a
chance to escape; so he was the first to arise in the morning, wakening
the others and urging them that it was time to break camp. The stolid
Indians were not to be moved by an audacious white boy. Watching the
young prisoner, the keepers lay still, feigning sleep. Radisson rose.
They made no protest. He wandered casually down to the water side.
One can guess that the half-closed eyelids of his guards opened a
trifle: was the mouse trying to get away from the cat? To the Indians'
amusement, instead of trying to escape, Radisson picked up a spear and
practised tossing it, till a Mohawk became so interested that he jumped
up and taught the young Frenchman the proper throws.
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