After another fiendish cachinnation, far more horrible to hear than his words of menace, the monster continued: "Dog! you refused to instruct the Arapaho in the skill of the fire-weapon; but you shall furnish them with at least one lesson before you die--ha, ha! You shall soon experience the pleasant death we have prepared for you! Ugh!" "Haste!" he continued, addressing himself to his follower; "prepare him for the sacrifice! Our warriors are impatient for the sport. The blood of our brothers is calling for vengeance. This in white, with a red spot in the centre--the rest of his body in black." These mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture. With the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my breast--just as if he had been _scribing_ it on the bark of a tree. The scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood. At the words "red spot in the centre," as if to make the direction more emphatic, he punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely. Had he driven the blade to its hilt, I could not have flinched: I was fixed firmly as the post to which they had bound me. I could not speak a word--either to question his intent, or reply to his menace. The gag was still between my teeth, and I was necessarily silent. It mattered little about my remaining silent. Had my tongue been free, it would have been idle to use it. In the wolf's visage, there was no one trait of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty. I knew that he would only have mocked any appeal I might have made. It was just as well that I had no opportunity of making it. After giving some further directions to his follower--and once more repeating his savage menace, in the same exulting tone--he passed behind me; and I lost sight of him. But I could tell by the noise that reached me at intervals, that he had gone down from the rock, and was returning to his warriors upon the plain. It was the first time since my face-fastenings had been cut loose, that I had a thought of looking in that direction. During all the while that the Red-Hand stood by me, I had been in constant dread of instant death--or of some equally fearful issue. The gleaming blade had never been out of my eyes for two seconds at a time; for in the gesticulations that accompanied his speeches, the steel had played an important part, and I knew not the moment, it might please the ferocious savage to put an end to my life. Now that he was gone, and I found a respite from his torturing menace, my eyes turned mechanically to the plain. I there beheld a spectacle, that under other circumstances might have filled me with horror. Not so then. The agony of my thoughts was already too keen to be further quickened. Even the gory skull of one of my comrades, who lay scalped upon the sward, scarcely added an emotion. It was a sight I had anticipated. They could not all be alive. CHAPTER SIXTY TWO. A SAVAGE ARTIST.