For the commandant's door
suddenly opened, and out came a blanket-draped, skin-clad figure. My
muscles stiffened. It was the Englishman. Singing Arrow had brought
him the clothing, and I had not seen.
So the moment had come. I gripped my sword as one turns instinctively
to the friend loved best. Would the prisoner act his part? So keen
was my anxiety, that I felt my spirit leap out to stand by his side,
and I shut my teeth upon the cry of encouragement that welled within me.
But he needed no help of mine. He made his way leisurely past the
great fire, walking with wonderful mimicry of a woman's gait, and he
kept his face well in the shelter of the blanket in a way that
suggested coquetry rather than disguise.
And in this manner he came straight to me. He came, unerringly as a
sleep-walker, past fires, past Indians, and through the gaunt rows of
maize. He looked neither to right nor left, and no one molested him.
He came to where I stood silent, and put out his hand to touch mine.
"It is done," he said quietly.
His fingers were warm, and his touch tingled. I marveled. "It is a
miracle," I said.
He looked at me in question. "Your hand is very cold. Monsieur,
monsieur, did you fear for me so much?"
I bowed.
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