They left the weapons sticking in the post until round Isaac's head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another.
"The White Eagle is tired of boys," cried Isaac to a chief dancing near.

"What has he done that he be made the plaything of children?
Let him die the death of a chief." The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the prisoner.

Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn.

The prisoner's proud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for his enemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red welts upon his clear white skin had won their hearts.
Not so with the braves.

Seeing that the pale face scorned all efforts to make him flinch, the young brave turned to Big Tree.