I
dodged them and ran on. Behind me I heard the terrible roar of the
blood-hungry army.
I fought my way on. Warriors and slaves rose before me and screamed at
my knife, and at something that was in my face. I did not touch them.
I had to find the woman. She might be hiding in one of the huts. But
there were many bark huts, and all alike. I ran on.
The air was thickening with powder smoke, and the taste of blood was in
my throat. A hatchet whistled by me and cut the cloth from my
shoulder. I saw the Seneca who threw the hatchet, but I would not
stop. Corpses were in my way. Twice I slipped in blood and went to my
knees.
I must search each lodge, each group. I had seen nothing that looked
like a woman.
An Indian grappled with me, and I slashed at him till he was helpless.
I was covered with blood that was not my own. I let him drop and
stumbled on.
I could not find the woman. I had not seen Starling nor Pierre nor
Labarthe nor Leclerc.
And over all the noise of tearing flesh and the screams of dying men
came the sound of singing, of constant, exultant singing,--the singing
of victors binding their captives; the death songs of wounded preparing
to die.
I saw two bodies lying together as if the same arrow had cleft them.
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