“They belong to the greatest Indian nation in the world,” Verrieul whispered hurriedly. “That’s what they all say—they’re Saukie-ok: Sacs: part of the nation of Sacs and Foxes—very important people—great fighters—this gentleman is a great fighter—he’s bragging—he once drove an arrow all the way through a buffalo—he once traveled eight days without food and entered the town of his enemies and went into the house of the man who had killed his brother and stuck a knife into him—he has the handsomest horse ever seen—he has four beautiful wives—he has taken twenty-seven scalps—he’s the one that thought of coming to this place and capturing us—everybody fears him because he’s cunning and full of stratagems—he thinks we’re fortunate to be taken prisoner by such a great man—he will now take us back to the camp of those who fight under the flag of the Great Father in England—and out of consideration for the ancient medicine man—he means Doc—he will permit all of us to travel unbound. We must be quiet; not try to escape.”

At pauses in Sponge-belly’s speech, his six comrades made labored grunting noises. They sounded like forerunners of seasickness, but they were intended to show admiration and approval.

At the close of the speech, Doc eyed us mildly, but his voice trembled a little. “He’s a wind-bag and a sponge-belly! If he drove an arrer all the way through a buffalo, it must ’a’ been a buffalo that didn’t have no bones. I guess I know that much anatomy! He’s a sponge-belly, you tell him!”

“I’ll tell him what will be most apt to save us from harm,” Verrieul said. “I shall tell him again that you’re a great medicine man: that we’re all great men.”

He struck a pose, as dignified as a man can contrive who is dead from sleep, whose breeches are in rags and who hasn’t shaved for four days. When he spoke, he gestured grandly, mouthing his words; raising his hands toward the heavens. I was asleep before he finished.

I half woke from time to time and was aware that the gold and crimson of the sunset turned to rose and then to pale blue above the hills on the New York shore, dimly visible to us through the laced branches of the birches. A cold mist came up from the lake and, in our fitful periods of half wakefulness, set us all to shivering.

XLII