CHAPTER XXIII.
THE VOTE OF DEATH I have already written that I was never easily affected by supernatural fears, yet something about that grim entrance chilled the very blood.
There was no cessation of the monotonous, dismal chanting of the priests, as these newcomers,--whose sinister purpose no one could doubt,--moving with the silence of spectres, their bodies draped in shapeless robes of skin, appearing ghostlike beneath the uncertain flickering of flame, moved forward like a great writhing snake, passed along the southern wall beneath the face of the flying dragon overhead, until they found seats on the hard floor between altar and platform; two or three, evidently superior chiefs, by their richer trappings, ascended the raised logs and solemnly squatted thereon, so as to face us.

How many composed this uncanny company I cannot say, having failed to count as they filed past, yet they completely filled the great room with scowling, upturned faces, and were probably all the available warriors of the tribe.
This was accomplished in stealthy silence, as wild animals creep upon their prey, nor did any among them take seats until the old war-chief--he who had led the assault in the gulch--made signal to that end.

Responding to a second gesture, we were driven roughly forward by our guard, until permitted to sink down once more, directly in their front, within full focus of their cruel eyes.
It was a fearful spot to be in.

That dark interior, dimly lighted by fitful bursts of flame, seemed more the abode of the damned than a place of human habitation, nor was there anything to remind us of mercy in that savage company gloating over our desperate plight.

No one of us doubted what fate dwelt in the decision of that grewsome gathering, and in those faces we saw nothing except eagerness for revenge.