"
But he laughed at my tone. "What does it matter?" he shrugged. "These
wards of mine--my happy family--must have their fete in their own
fashion, or they will ask that I pay the piper. Well, whatever they
do, the prisoner is in our hands, and it will be long before he escapes
them. Yes, listen,--oh, the play-acting dogs!--they are making him
sing now."
He had a keen ear, for, even to my forest-trained sense, the sound came
but faintly. The crowd hushed its breathing, and the air was
unwholesomely still. A dog yelped, and an Indian silenced it with a
kick. Each paddle-stroke threw the canoes into sharper relief, and we
could distinguish lank arms, and streaming hair. The prisoner's voice
echoed as clear as if he were in some great playhouse, and were singing
to gain the plaudits of a friendly throng.
I felt my blood tingling in my fingers' ends. It was a brave song,
bravely sung. I could not understand the English words, but the sound
was rollicking with defiance. It was a glove thrown in our faces; the
challenge of a brave man to a cowardly foe.
"The plucky beggar!" I said half aloud, and I set my teeth hard.
But Cadillac was nudging my elbow. "You said that the prisoner was a
man of importance," he accused, with a perplexed frown.
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