Only Jean
Pauquet had escaped. They had been captives now for several weeks.
Rage had begun to die out, fury to subside; apathy seized them in its
listless embrace. Heavy, unkempt beards adorned their faces, and their
hair lay tangled and matted upon their shoulders. They were all
pictures of destitution, and especially the whilom debonair poet. His
condition was almost pitiable. Some knavish rascal had thrust burdocks
into his hair and another had smeared his face with balsam sap. He had
thrashed one of these tormentors, and had been belabored in return. He
had by now grown to accept each new indignity with the same patient
philosophy which made the Chevalier and the vicomte objects of
admiration among the older redskin stoics. As for D'Herouville, he had
lost but little of his fire, and flew into insane passions at times;
but he always paid heavily for the injuries which he inflicted upon his
tormentors. His wound, however, had entirely healed, and the color on
his cheeks was healthful. He would become a formidable antagonist
shortly. And there were intervals when the vicomte eyed him morosely.
The Chevalier completely ignored the count, either in converse or in
looks.
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