The Stronghold of the Natchez

We were hopelessly prisoners. On my part further struggle had become impossible, nor elsewhere did any effort last long, although Cairnes had to be knocked insensible before the heathen finally mastered him. I believed the obstinate fellow dead, so ghastly white appeared his usually florid face as the victorious savages dragged him roughly past where I lay, flinging his heavy body down like carrion upon the rocks. De Noyan appeared badly cut, his gallant clothing clinging to him in fluttering rags, silent witnesses to the manliness of his struggle. Yet the Chevalier was far from done.

"Let me sit up, you villains!" he cried, vigorously kicking at a passing shin. "'T is not my custom to lie with head so low. Ah, Benteen," he smiled pleasantly across at me, his eyes kindling at the recollection, "that was the noblest fighting that ever came my way, yet 'tis likely we shall pay well for our fun. Sacre! 't is no pleasant face, that of their grim war-chief, nor one to inspire a man with hope as he makes plea for mercy."

"Marry, no," I replied, determined on exhibiting no greater outward concern than he. "Nor will the ugly clip on his shoulder leave his humor happier."

The Chevalier's eyes danced at the recollection.

"'T was our preacher friend who sheared him. I hold it a master-stroke; but for a spear-butt on the way it would have cleft the fellow into two equal parts. Have you seen aught of Eloise since the fight?"