Catharines-town. And him we were now about to take or slay.
“Amochol!” whispered the Sagamore in my ear.
“I know,” I said. “It is strange. He is not like a monster, after all.”
“He is beautiful,” whispered Lois.
I stared at the pale, calm face over which the firelight played. The features seemed almost perfect, scarcely cruel, yet there was in the eyes a haunting beauty that was almost terrible when they became fixed.
To his scarlet moccasins crept the Andastes, one by one, and squatted there in silence.
Then a single warrior entered the ring. He was clad in the ancient arrow-proof armour of the