On her cowl was a wreath of nightshade, with its dull purple fruit and blossoms clustering around her shadowed brow.
"Who is that ?" whispered Lois, beginning to tremble, "God knows," I said.

"Wait!" The shrouded shape moved straight to the great stone altar and stood there a moment facing it; then, veiling her face with her robe, she turned, mounted the left hand mound, and seated herself, head bowed.
Toward her, advancing all alone, was now approaching a figure, painted, clothed, and plumed in scarlet.

Everything was scarlet about him, his moccasins, his naked skin, the fantastic cloak and blanket, girdle, knife-hilt, axe shaft, and the rattling quiver on his back--nay, the very arrows in it were set with scarlet feathers, and the looped bowstring was whipped with crimson sinew.
The Andastes came moaning, cringing, fawning, and leaping about his knees; he noticed them not at all; the Cat-People, seated in a semicircle, looked up humbly as he passed; he ignored them.
Slowly he moved to the altar and laid first his hand upon it, then unslung his bow and quiver and laid them there.

A great silence fell upon the throng.

And we knew we were looking at last upon the Scarlet Priest.
Yes, this was Amochol, the Red Sachem, the vile, blaspheming, murderous, and degraded chief who had made of a pure religion a horror, and of a whole people a nation of unspeakable assassins.
As the firelight flashed full in his face, I saw that his features were not painted; that they were delicate and regular, and that the skin was pale, betraying his French ancestry.
And good God! What a brood of demons had that madman, Frontenac, begot to turn loose upon this Western World! For there appeared to be a Montour in every bit of devil's work we ever heard of--and it seemed as though there was no end to their number.