“Do not dare to make a chief a dog,” he hissed. “Give me the torture, or give me death. Have I no friend among this people who will strike a sharp knife into my breast?” “Has he a friend among the warriors who will do this?” said Black-Hawk. “Let him speak.” No voice replied, and the countenance of Little Fox changed from hope to fear. “He has no friend,” cried Black-Hawk. “Advance, Wa-be-ke-zhick; cut away the totem.” It was done, and Little Fox, if he lived, was ostracised for ever from his tribe and death would be to him a happy release. In the mean time, a great caldron had been placed upon a fire, and in this the keg of rum was poured, and a great quantity of gourds piled up beside it. The spirits had now begun to bubble, and taking up a little in a gourd, Black-Hawk advanced and offered it to the condemned man. “For this you sold us to the white men, Little Fox. Drink, now that I give it to you. It is warm—it is good—it will make you strong.” As he spoke, he dashed the contents of the gourd against the breast of the doomed man, and Little Fox uttered an appalling shriek which rung with startling distinctness through the forest. Now ensued a horrible scene, as Indian after Indian caught up a gourd and dashed a portion of the boiling spirits upon the naked body of the traitor. Black Will stopped his ears and turned away his head to shut out the agonizing sights and sounds which the sacrifice presented. He was a cruel man by nature, but he found that the Indians could go beyond him in refinement of torture. At last the caldron was empty, and the victim stood literally parboiled at the stake, gnawing his lips to keep down the shrieks which arose in spite of himself. The faces of his stern executioners did not change, and they were about to commence some new species of torture, when Black Will sprung between. “Stop, Black-Hawk; stand back there, Napope. This fellow deserves death. But you shall not torture him any longer. Kill him, and put him out of pain.” “Stand aside, white man!” cried Napope. “Why do you come between the warriors and a traitor?” “White man! I am the son of Red-Bird, the Sac, who died in the white man’s prison; and I say that this shall not go on. Will you kill him?” “No; let the torture go on.” Black Will wheeled in his tracks, drew a pistol, and shot Little Fox through the heart. Bloody as the deed was, it was mercy, compared with the torture in store for the traitor. He started as the bullet pierced him, a look of ferocious joy passed over his face, and his head dropped upon his bosom. There came a wild rush at the immovable figure of Black Will, but the sonorous voice of Black-Hawk was heard, ordering them to stand back. “Touch not the son of Red-Bird, lest you make an enemy of Black-Hawk,” he cried. “Take down the body and cast it out in the open woods, that the wolves may eat all that is left of a traitor.”