The French soldiers who were guarding the prisoners gazed curiously at the demoniac figures.

They were of the battalions Bearn and Guienne and they had come newly from France.
Plunged suddenly into the wilderness, such sights as they now beheld filled them with amazement, and often created a certain apprehension.

They were not so sure that their wild allies were just the kind of allies they wanted.
The sun set lower upon the savage scene, casting a dark glow over the ruined forts, the troops, the leaping savages and the huddled prisoners.
One of the Indians danced and bounded more wildly than all the rest.

He was tall, but slim, apparently youthful, and he wore nothing except breech cloth, leggings and moccasins, his naked body a miracle of savage painting.
Robert by and by watched him alone, fascinated by his extraordinary agility and untiring enthusiasm.

His figure seemed to shoot up in the air on springs, and, with a glittering tomahawk, he slew and scalped an imaginary foe over and over again, and every time the blade struck in the air he let forth a shout that would have done credit to old Stentor himself.