He heard their breathing, or in the silence a fire's light had shown him a sleeping face, the lines of a form, or an arm tossed out.
What would happen on the night he found himself alone, he knew not--death, or the loss of reason.

He knew what the torture would be,--the shrieks of women in deadly terror, the shrill cries of children, the low, tense curses of men, the rattle of shots, the yells of Indians, the heavy, sickening smell of blood, the still forms fallen in strange positions of ease, the livid faces distorted to grins.

He had not been able to keep the sounds from his ears, but thus far the things themselves had stayed behind him, moving always, crawling, writhing, even stepping furtively close at his back, so that he could feel their breath on his neck.

When the time came that these should move around in front of him, he thought it would have to be the end.

They would go before him, a wild, bleeding, raving procession, until they tore his heart from his breast.