It was morning when he had fought Brokaw; it was now almost
night. The wash-basin was where it had fallen when Henry struck him. He
saw a red stain on the floor where he must have dropped. Then again he
looked at the window. It was rather oddly out of place, so high up that
one could not look in from the outside--a rectangular slit to let in
light, and so narrow that a man could not have wormed his way through
it. He had seen nothing particularly significant in its location last
night, or this morning, but now its meaning struck him as forcibly as
that of the pieces of _babiche_ thong that bound his wrists and ankles.
A guest might be housed in this room without suspicion and at the turn
of a key be made a prisoner. There was no way of escape unless one broke
down the heavy door or cut through the log walls.
Gradually he was overcoming his sensation of sickness. His head was
clearing, and he began to breathe more deeply. He tried to move his
cramped arms. They were without feeling, lifeless weights hung to his
shoulders. With an effort he thrust out his feet. And then--through the
window--there came to him a low, thrilling sound.
It was the muffled _boom_, _boom_, _boom_ of a tom-tom.
Wapi and his Indians were going, and he heard now a weird and growing
chant, a savage paean to the wild gods of the Moulting Moon.
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