“Traitor and renegade!” he cried. “This is your gratitude, then, this your return for our trust and friendship! Mayhap those be fruit of your treachery, Monapikot! Which of your benefactors have you slain? Wompatannawa you call yourself? Hear a litter name: Murderer! You who—”
Two braves beside him, at a sign from Metipom, seized him and bore him, struggling, to the ground. His torrent of anger ceased only when a knife touched his throat, and then, trembling, hot tears in his eyes, he gave in.
“You no talk,” said one of the Indians grimly.
David swallowed hard, nodded, and, after a moment, muttered, “Winnet.” When he looked, the sachem was addressing Monapikot. None, it seemed, had heeded his outburst. Perhaps for the few who knew any English, save Monapikot, his words had flowed too fast to be understood. When the pounding of blood in his head would allow, he strove to hear what the Pegan was saying to Metipom, for the former had arisen to his feet and was speaking in Nipmuck.
“I know him not, Woosonametipom, nor ever saw him. Nor do I know how it happens
