When the latter finally gave it up
and started away to get his share of the feast, Cabot's gaze followed
him closely.
All this time our lad was filled with vague terrors concerning White,
of whose fate he had not received the slightest intimation, as well as
of what might be in store for himself. Would he be carried to the
distant interior to become a slave in some filthy Indian village, or
would he be killed before they took their departure? Perhaps they
would simply leave him there to freeze and starve to death, or they
might amuse themselves by burning him at the stake. Did these far
northern Indians still do such things? He wondered, but could not
remember ever to have heard.
While considering these unpleasant possibilities, Cabot was also
suffering with cold, from the pain of his bonds, and from lying
motionless on the bed of rocks to which he had been carelessly flung.
But, with all his pain and his mental distress, he still glared at the
young savage who had so basely betrayed his kindness, and at length
Arsenic seemed to be uneasily aware of the steady gaze. He changed his
position several times, and his noisy hilarity was gradually succeeded
by a sullen silence. Suddenly he lifted his head and listened
apprehensively. His quick ear had caught an ominous note in the
distant, long-drawn howl of a wolf. He spoke of it to his comrades,
and several of them joined him in listening.
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