The war songs in their very monotony were chilling, and full of ferocity, and in all the thousand faces there was not one that shone with the light of kindness and mercy.
Long glances were cast at Henry, but even their keen eyes failed to notice that he was not an Indian, and he stood watching them, his face impassive, but his interest aroused.

A dozen warriors naked to the waist and hideously painted were singing a war song, while they capered and jumped to its unrhythmic tune.

Suddenly one of them snatched something from his girdle and waved it aloft in triumph.

Henry knew that it was a scalp, many of which he had seen, and he paid little attention, but the Indian came closer, still singing and dancing, and waving his hideous trophy.
The scalp flashed before Henry's eyes, and it displayed not the coarse black locks of the savage, but hair long, fine and yellow like silk.

He knew that it was the scalp of a white girl, and a sudden, shuddering horror seized him.