“Maybe you talk?” demanded the sachem, his face thrust close to David’s, his eyes hard with wrath and cruelty. “Philip not burn you all up quick, David. Philip make you roast little, then you cool off. Maybe you talk plenty. Speak, you English dog-pup!”
“I know—nothing,” mumbled David. “Give me—water!”
“Water? I give you fire! I make your tongue hang from your mouth! I make you suffer grand like your people make my children and my squaws suffer. You see!”
From the swamp to the west came the shrill call of a jay, twice repeated. At the first sound King Philip and those beside him stiffened to attention. At the third they turned and strode toward the center of the camp. David closed his eyes again and his head fell forward and merciful unconsciousness came over him.
From the swamp a straggling line of savages emerged and, signing greetings, approached the sachem. A scant dozen in all, most bore muskets and a number showed wounds that still dripped blood. They were not of Philip’s company, but were Quaboags, and with them were three sagamores, Quanansit, Apequinash, and Mawtamps. One,
