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the village of St. Francis. The prisoners had known for several days that a destination was near. They were traveling not on foot now, but in three Indian canoes. They had left the shining Lake Champlain behind, progressing by a series of rivers and streams, now wide, now narrow and swift. Twice they had stopped at French forts, once at Crown Point and once at Chamblec, and each time the French soldiers, though refusing to buy any prisoners, had handed out hot food and brandy. From these first encounters with the French, Miriam saw little reason to fear them. If it were Canada they were approaching, their fortunes were bound to improve.
    The spirits of the Indians were visibly on the rise, and their pace was accelerated. Powerful bronze arms sent the three canoes racing with long rhythmic thrusts, and now and again shouts of unguarded triumph sent shivers down the spines of the prisoners cramped against the rough floors. By night, in the light of the fire they had built on the shore, the Indians danced, circling in an endless weaving chain around the fire, one brave after another breaking the pattern with violent, hideous contortions.
    When they tired of dancing they rehearsed the prisoners for some future performance that must meet exacting standards. Each of the white prisoners was taught a special song. Over and over Miriam's master drilled her in the detestable, meaningless words,
Danna witchee natchepung.
Sylvanus was the only one who seemed to perform to the Indians' satisfaction. He would pose, legs astride, arms folded like a chieftain, and shrill
Narviscumption,
until they howled and slapped their legs with relish.
    Finally, late one afternoon, the canoes drew up to a narrow strip of sand where the Indians donned war paint. Here for the first time each of the prisoners was daubed. Miriam held herself rigid as her master drew a bark twig across her cheeks and forehead, leaving a sticky smear of vermilion. Susanna looked like an apparition, her gaunt cheeks hideously spotted. Sylvanus was a comical little goblin, his baby face a striped replica of his master's.
    "What is it for, Peter?" Miriam whispered, steadying the spoon against the baby's ravenous groping mouth, as they took advantage of the brief halt. "Are we coming to Canada?"

 
    Peter Labaree rubbed his chin glumly. "No chance of that now," he said. "We've turned south again two days ago. Changed their minds, I mistrust."
    "Then where are they taking us?"
    "From the direction, I reckon Saint Francis."
    St. Francis! The most dreaded word in all New England!
    "Then they'll kill us!" she moaned, her fear breaking through the whisper. Peter lifted a warning hand.
    "Steady now," he cautioned, taking the jerking spoon out of her fingers. "I think they're still bent on selling us to the French. Probably want to show us off first. And they need food as bad as we do."
    "They burn people at the stake at Saint Francis!"
    Labaree shook his head. "These Injuns are Abenakis. If they was Iroquois now, I wouldn't give much for our chances. With the Abenakis, I'd say the worst we've got to look forward to is the gantlet."
    That was another of those words the women at the fort used to whisper. The gantlet—double lines of Indians armed with clubs and knives, through which a captive was lucky to come out alive.
    "Keep your chin up, girl," advised Labaree, noting too late what his words had done. "You've got to allow these redskins have treated us decently enough so far."
    They pushed on again, the Indians whooping and yelling in anticipation. Presently the tense nerves of the prisoners jumped to an answering clamor from the shore, as they swept toward a stretch of pebbly sand. Instantly, from the trees, a howling frenzy of women burst upon the shore. After the weeks of silence, the hubbub was paralyzing. Miriam shrank in the canoe and stared at the ragged screaming women, the naked shrill, excited children, and the dogs, countless mangy frantic creatures, leaping and