Suddenly there came a lull. A dozen buckets of water were flung on the
pile, and the flames fell to smouldering ashes. The smoke thinned, and
I saw the circle of my tormentors.
The chief spoke, and asked me if my purpose still held.
With the cool shock of the water one moment of bodily comfort returned
to me, and with it a faint revival of my spirit. But it was of no set
intention that I answered as I did. My bones were molten with fright,
and I had not one ounce of bravery in me. Something not myself took
hold on me, and spoke for me. Ringan's tunes, a brisk one this time,
lilted in my ear.
I could not believe my own voice. But I rejoice to say that my reply
was to consign every Indian in America to the devil.
I shook with fear when I had spoken. I looked to see them bring dry
fuel and light the pile again. But I had played a wiser part than I
knew. The chief gave an order, the faggots were cleared, my bonds were
cut, and I was led away from the stake.
The pain of my cramped and scorched limbs was horrible, but I had just
enough sense left to shut my teeth and make no sound.
The chief looked at me long and calmly as I drooped before him, for
there was no power in my legs. He was an eagle-faced savage, with the
most grave and searching eyes.
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