Dimly some sort of light reddened around him. People were feeding a fire. The hollow glade in which he lay swam like a mirage before him. About the fire circled a dozen or so of very old Indians. They were so absorbed in the ritual of their dance that they ignored the presence of the other group of younger Indians who had brought in the prisoners. Prisoners were a minor thing and of no importance compared with this ceremony, which must not be interrupted. The old Indians went round and round and round and round, without words, without music, without sound of any kind. Their hands were weaponless, their gestures were as one. Dizzied and dumfounded by this circular marching, Doby closed his eyes and waited for death by violence. Vigo and the two voyageurs were in the same plight. Yet none of them was gagged or bound or weaponless. Their captors did not rush forward in triumph with their prey, nor give the conqueror's war-whoop. They stayed half hidden in the background. Their one desire seemed to be to keep the silence unbroken. The voyageurs, rough adventurers, soon recovered from the surprise of their capture, and stood lightly poised either to fight or to run. Escape was the first thought in their minds. Their expression soon changed from shock to curiosity; from curiosity to wide-eyed incredulity. Even Doby's shattered wits found an uncanny aspect of things. Abject fear was swallowed up by a thrill at the weirdness which breathed from the glade. The whites looked from the young savages, unarmed, guarding them, to the old ones, unarmed, gyrating monotonously, and using their hands rhythmically. One of the hardy voyageurs turned green and ghastly under his tan and his knees doubled under him. Francis Vigo, following his glance, went white to the lips. But the poniard up his sleeve shot out and he pricked the fainting voyageur cruelly. The pain revived the man. His companion received the same treatment. Even then they were plainly weak with horror. And Francis Vigo, the intrepid soldier, closed his eyes, as though the dancing men were the most dreadful sight of his life--a vision sickening beyond endurance. While his captors stood rigid in shadow, while the voyageurs shook with nervous chill, while Vigo glanced wildly here and there, Doby stared at this curious feast which could so undo strong men. For despite its dull and lugubrious setting, feast of some kind it certainly must be. This place was not a village. There were no wigwams, no women, no children, no ponies, no dogs. All the interest centered on a great flat stone in the center of the glade. It held a bed of glowing coals. Savory meat was roasting there. The old men, swooping slowly back and forth, were gorging themselves in a strange and barbarous ceremony of united forms of handling--biting--chewing. Solemnly, in an ancient, long-forbidden and almost-forgotten rite, they were invoking some spirit of evil.