Eagle Head approached the prisoner, and delivering her from the harpies who annoyed her, said in a solemn voice-- "Woman, I have kept my promise; your son is not come, you are about to die." "Thanks," she said, in a tremulous voice, leaning against a tree to avoid falling. "Are you not afraid of death?" he asked. "No," she replied, fixing upon him a look of angelic mildness; "it will be most welcome; my life has been nothing but one long agony; death will be to me a blessing." "But your son?" "My son will be saved if I die; you have sworn it upon the bones of your fathers." "I have sworn it." "Deliver me up to death, then." "Are the women of your nation, then, like Indian squaws, who view torture without trembling?" the chief asked, with astonishment. "Yes," she replied with great agitation; "all mothers despise it when the safety of their children is at stake." "Listen," said the Indian, moved with involuntary pity; "I also have a mother whom I love; if you desire it, I will retard your punishment till sunset." "What should you do that for?" she replied with terrible simplicity. "No, warrior; if my grief really touches you, there is one favour, one favour alone which you can grant me." "Name it," he said earnestly. "Put me to death immediately." "But if your son arrives?" "Of what importance is that to you? You require a victim, do you not? Very well, that victim is before you, you may torture her at your pleasure. Why do you hesitate? Put me to death, I say." "Your desire shall be satisfied," the Comanche replied in a melancholy tone. "Woman, prepare yourself." She bowed her head upon her breast, and waited. Upon a signal from Eagle Head, two warriors seized the prisoner, and tied her to the stake round the waist. Then the exercise of the knife began; this is what it consists of:-- Every warrior seizes his scalping knife by the point with the thumb and the first finger of his right hand, and launches it at the victim, so as to inflict only slight wounds. Indians, in their punishments, endeavour to make the tortures continue as long as possible, and only give their enemy the _coup de grâce_ when they have torn life from him by degrees, and, so to say, piecemeal. The warriors launched their knives with such marvellous skill, that all of them just grazed the unfortunate woman, inflicting nothing more than scratches. The blood, however, flowed, she closed her eyes, and, absorbed in herself, prayed fervently for the mortal stroke. The warriors, to whom her body served as a target, grew warmer by degrees; curiosity, the desire of showing their skill, had taken in their minds the place of the pity they had at first felt. They applauded with loud shouts and laughter the prowess of the most adroit.