Some of the
women brought fagots for the pile, others cut splinters to thrust
under the nails and into the flesh. The old women chattered and
exulted over the tortures they would inflict; a few of the younger
ones stood aloof, looking on pityingly.
The men of the tribe gathered in a circle, but took no part in the
preparations--the torture of women was beneath them.
At last all was ready. A fire was lit near; the hags lit their
firebrands and advanced. The chief gave the signal, and with a yell
of exultation they rushed upon their victim, but fell back with a
cry of surprise, rudely thrust off by three Indians who placed
themselves before the captive.
The women retreated hastily, and the men advanced to know the
reason of this strange interruption. The Raven and his companions
were unarmed. The Indians frowned upon them, uncertain what course
to pursue.
"My brothers," the Raven said, "I am come to die. The Raven's time
is come. He has flown his last flight. He and his brothers will die
with the little White Bird. The Raven and his friends are not dogs.
They have shed their blood against their enemies, and they do not
know how to cry out. But their time has come, they are ready to
die. But they must die before the little White Bird.
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