[1]This is history as told by a Frenchman. As a matter of fact, the French Canadians remained where they were, until they became the most loyal subjects the British Crown possesses.—Editor.
[1]This is history as told by a Frenchman. As a matter of fact, the French Canadians remained where they were, until they became the most loyal subjects the British Crown possesses.—Editor.
Hearing this unexpected shot, Oliver was in the act of rushing to assist his friend, whom he supposed attacked by some wild beast, when the hearty and joyous voice of the Canadian was heard.
"Don't disturb yourself, my friend," he cried, "I have only been providing our dinner."
And next minute he reappeared, carrying on his back a doe, which he hung to one of the lower branches of the magnolia, and then began to open.
"Handsome beast, is it not?" he said. "I believe the rascal was listening. He paid dear for his curiosity."
"A fine beast and cleverly killed," replied Oliver, helping to skin the animal.
"It is a pity to spoil a good skin. I am a pretty good shot, but you should see my father shoot a tiger in the eye."
"That," cried Oliver, "seems extraordinary."
"I have seen him do it twenty times, and still more difficult things," said the other. "But such deadly certainty is pure habit. We live by our guns—but to finish my story."
"Go on, my friend."
"My father was a child when we left Canada. He is now about forty-eight. My grandfather taught him to be a hunter, and to bind him to the tribe he married him when very young to a charming young Indian, a relative of Kouha-hande, and my mother in consequence. We are mere children. I am only twenty, and my sister but fifteen, lovely as the breath of dawn, and whose real name is Angela, my father's wish. But the Indians call her Evening Dew. That is all. I am a hunter. I hate the English and the North Americans, who are worse than John Bull himself, and I love the French, whose countryman I am."
"You are quite right. Few native-born Frenchmen are such strong patriots as you. But now for your name."
"Have I not told you? My name is Pierre Berger, but the Indians, in their mania for such names, call me Bright-eye, I hardly know why."
"Of course because of your admirable power of shooting."
"Well, perhaps you are right. I am a pretty good hand," said the young man, modestly. "And now, my friend, I have to add that I reached here yester evening at sundown, and that I am waiting for a friend, who will be here shortly. It is now your turn to tell me your history, unless, indeed, you have any motives for remaining silent, in which case a man's secrets are his own."
"I have no secrets, especially from you, my dear Bright-eye, and the proof is that if you will listen, I will tell you who I am and why I came into this country."
"I shall be delighted to hear your story," cried the Canadian, with evident delight.
From the very first moment when he saw the hunter and came to speak to him, Oliver felt himself attracted towards him by one of those movements of attraction or irresistible sympathy which spring from intuition of the heart.
He had therefore, during his conversation, determined if possible to make him a friend.
He thereupon told him his story in its most minute details, the Canadian listening with the most profound and sustained attention, without interrupting him by a single remark. He appeared sincerely interested in the numerous incidents of a life wretched from its commencement, and yet which the young man told frankly and simply, without bitterness, but with an impartiality which indicated the grandeur and nobility of his nature.
"Sad story, indeed," he cried, when the other had concluded; "how you must have suffered from the unjust hatred of these people! Alone in the world, without any to interest himself in you; surrounded by hostile or indifferent people; compelled to suffer from dark and insidious foes; capable of great things—young, strong, and intelligent, yet reduced to fly into the desert, and separate yourself from your fellows. Pardon if my cruel curiosity has reopened the wound which long since should have been cauterised."
He paused, keenly watching the other's face.
"Will you be my friend?" he suddenly cried. "I already feel for you an affection I can scarcely explain."
"Thanks," cried Oliver, warmly, "I accept your offer with delight."
"Then it is agreed: from henceforth we are brothers."
"I swear it," resumed Oliver.
"We shall henceforth be two to fight the battle of the world."
"I thank heaven we have met."
"Never to part again. You have no family. I will find you one, brother, and this family will love you," he added.
"Heartily accept my thanks, Bright-eye," exclaimed Oliver; "life already seems changed, and I feel as if happiness were yet possible in this world."
"There can be no doubt about it. Believe me, it depends on yourself. Look upon the past only as a dream, and think only of the future."
"I will do so," returned Oliver, with a sigh.
"And now to business. Young as I am, you will soon find that I enjoy a certain amount of reputation among the Indians and trappers. Very few would dare to attack me. I was educated in an Indian village, and, as I believe I have already told you, I am here to keep an appointment with a young Indian, my friend and relative. This Indian I now expect every moment, and I shall introduce you to him. Instead of one friend, you will have two devoted brothers. Now then," he added, laughing, "are you not fortunate?"
"I am convinced of it," said Oliver.
"When we have finished our business in these parts—and you may help us in this business—we will return to my tribe, of which you shall become a member."
"I am wholly in your hands, Bright-eye," he said; "I make no resistance. I only thank you."
"No thanks. I am useful to you today; you may be as useful, or more so, tomorrow."
"Very well. But what is the affair that detains you here, to which you just alluded?" asked Oliver.
"I must say that I do not know, though frankly I have my own suspicions. My friend has not thought proper to explain as yet, but simply gave me a rendezvous here, saying that I might prove useful. That was enough for me, and, as you see, I am here. It would be an act of indiscretion on my part to tell you anything I had not been directly told. Besides, I may be mistaken, and speak to you of a wholly different matter from the true one."
"You are quite right."
"To pass the time I will prepare supper."
"And while doing so tell what manner of man your friend is."
"He is a young man like ourselves, grandson of Kouha-hande. He is himself a chief, and a noted brave. Though young, his reputation is immense. He is tall, athletic, and even elegant of face. His features are handsome, even to effeminacy. His glance, gentle in repose as that of a dove, is, when his anger is aroused, so terrible that few can face it. His physical force is stupendous, his cunning sublime. But you will soon judge for yourself. His enemies call him Kristikam-Seksenan, or Black Thunder; his friends call him Numank-Charake, the brave man, in consequence of his mighty deeds."
"You have simply been describing a hero," said Oliver.
"You shall judge for yourself," smiled the other.
"I am extremely anxious to do so."
"You will soon have the opportunity. It is now five o'clock. In a few minutes he will be here."
"What, after making an appointment so long ago, you expect him to keep it to the minute!"
"Yes; it is the politeness of the desert, from which nothing absolves but death."
"A summary excuse, truly," said Oliver.
"Listen," cried Bright-eye.
Oliver listened, and distinctly heard in the distance the trampling of a horse, which suddenly ceased, to be followed by the cry of the goshawk.
Bright-eye responded with a similar cry, and with such perfection that the Frenchman mechanically raised his head in search of the bird.
Then the sound of a horse galloping recommenced, the bushes parted violently, and a horseman bounded into the clearing, checking his steed so artistically that next moment he stood like a centaur rooted to the ground.
The rider was very much as Bright-eye had described him. There was about him, moreover, an air of grandeur, a majesty which inspired respect without repelling sympathy. One glance sufficed to fix him as a man of superior nature.
It was the first time Oliver, since his journey on the prairies, had seen an Indian so near, and under such favourable circumstances. He at once formed a friendly opinion of him.
The chief bowed, and then pointed to the sun gilding the summits of the trees.
"It is five o'clock. Here is Numank-Charake."
"I say welcome, chief. I know your extreme punctuality. Supper is ready."
"Good," said the chief, alighting from his horse with one bound.
Bright-eye then placed his hands on his friend's shoulders.
"Let my brother listen. The hunter is my friend."
"Numank-Charake has read it in the eyes of Bright-eye," replied the Indian, turning to Oliver; "I put my hand on my heart, what will my brother give me in return?"
"My hand and my heart; that is," he added, with a smile, "all that is not Bright-eye's."
"I accept my share; henceforth we are three in one, one in three. Numank-Charake was once the Bounding Panther. Let that name be the name of my brother."
They shook hands. All was done. According to the customs of the country they were brothers, and held everything in common.
Almost on the threshold of his desert life, Oliver found himself associated with two men noted as the most honest and doughty champions of the prairie.
For some time the three men, of such different birth, race, and manners, remained silent. It was a solemn moment. Their meeting appeared to them providential.
Above all was the young Frenchman absorbed in his reflections. Alone an hour or two ago, he was now one of a formidable trio.
All the time the Canadian went on with his cooking, while the chief gave fodder to the horses.
"Supper is ready," suddenly cried Bright-eye, laughing, "let us eat."
And all three seated themselves around a magnificent roast leg of venisonà la boucanière.
We must hasten to remark that nearly all Indian tribes on the borders of Canada understand and speak French, at all events, they did at the time of which we speak. This was the more fortunate as Oliver did not know one word of Huron.
The guests did honour to the feast, that is to say, they left nothing but the bones.
The meal, which was washed down by several draughts of French brandy, was merry, enlivened by jokes and witticisms. The Indians are always thus among themselves. It is only when in the presence of the whites, whom they hate, that they are grave, silent, and sullen, never unbending except under the influence of drink, when their conduct is that of beings under the influence of delirium tremens.
Brandy, or rather spirit in every shape and form, is doing the work of extermination for the American.
As soon as the repast was finished, they began to smoke, speaking of indifferent things. It was the design neither of Bright-eye nor Oliver to hurry the young chief. Indian etiquette is excessively severe on this point. It is a proof of intense ill breeding to question a chief, or even a simple warrior, when he appears anxious for silence.
And yet the sun had disappeared from the horizon; night had spread over the desert, blotting out the landscape, and mixing up forms in the most fantastic and strange manner. The sky, of a deep blue, was dotted with stars. The moon, in its second quarter, began to show itself above the trees, floating in ether, and spreading on every side its silvery rays, that lit the prairie here and there with fantastic gleams. The night wind shivered through the branches of the trees producing plaintive and melodious sounds, like those of the Æolian harp.
The sombre dwellers in the desert, roused by the setting of the sun, moved slowly about in the darkness, breaking the silence occasionally by their wild brays, their sharp barks, and their deep roars. Under every blade of grass murmured the never silent world of grasshoppers.
The night was cold. It was the period of the great autumn hunts. Several white frosts had already cooled the earth, soon the temperature would be below zero. The rivers and streams would be frozen, and snow would cover the desert as with a shroud.
The adventurers, after throwing on an armful of dry wood to revive the flame, had wrapped themselves in their ponchos, and, sheltered by the trees, continued smoking silently.
"This is the hour of the second watch," suddenly observed Numank, drawing from his belt the medicine calumet, which is only used by chiefs in council; "the blue jay has sung twice, all rests around us. Will my pale friends sleep or listen to the voice of a friend?"
"Sleep is for women and children," replied Bright-eye; "men remain awake when a friend desires to speak of serious things. Speak."
"We listen," added Oliver, bowing.
"I will speak, since my friends desire it; but as what I have to say is grave, it will not be a talk but a medicine council."
"Let it be so," said Bright-eye.
Numank rose, bowed to the four cardinal points, speaking some indistinct words; then he seated himself on his hams again, stuffed his calumet with moriche, a kind of sacred tobacco only used in great ceremonies. Then having burnt some in the fire as an oblation, he took a medicine stick, and with it lifted a burning coal to the bowl of the calumet.
The chief then gave several puffs, and then, still holding the bowl in his hand, presented the stem to Bright-eye. The hunter gave several puffs, as did Oliver in his turn; it then came back to the chief, this going on until the last morsel of tobacco was consumed.
Then Numank-Charake rose, bent again to the four cardinal points of the heavens, shook the ashes into the fire, and spoke.
"Wacondah, master of life," he said, "you who know all, inspire my words."
This formality over he replaced his calumet and sat down.
Some minutes elapsed, during which he remained wrapped in deep thought. Then he raised his head, before bowed on his chest, bowed to his audience, and began.
"Eight moons ago," he said, "I had just returned from an expedition against the Piekanns. After presenting the scalps taken by myself and young men to the sachems, and receiving their thanks, I was going to my wigwam to visit my father, detained at home by old wounds, when I suddenly saw a young girl leaning against the ark of the first man. The young girl was about fifteen, tall, elegant, and beautiful. I had long loved her without ever revealing the secret of my heart. On this occasion she seemed to wait for me, and saw me approach with a melancholy glance."
Bright-eye's eyes glistened, despite his self-control.
"When I was near her the young girl spread out her arms towards me, and then made a step forward. I paused, and waited. 'Numank is a great warrior,' she said, modestly lowering her eyes; 'his hut is lined with the scalps of his foes, he has rich skins of every kind of beast, his ball never misses; happy will be the woman whom he loves.'"
"On hearing these words, I was deeply moved, and seizing the hand of the young girl, 'Onoura—beautiful child,' I said in her ear, 'I have a little bird in my heart which is always singing and repeating your name. Does this bird sing in your heart?' She smiled, looked at me from under her eyelashes, and murmured, 'Night and day he whispers tender words in my ear, and repeats the name of the warrior who loves me. Does not Numank-Charake find his hut very solitary during the long winter nights, when the wind howls in the forest and the snow covers the earth?' 'My heart has long flown out to you,' I cried, warmly, 'from the first hour that I saw you amidst your companions. Do you love me?' 'For life,' she said, blushing deeply. 'Good,' said I, 'then I will attempt a new expedition to win the marriage presents, and ask you of your father. You will wait for me, Onoura?' 'I will wait for you, Numank. Am I not your slave for life?' and she gently pressed my hand. I then took a wampum off my neck, and placed it on hers. She kissed it, her eyes full of tears, and taking a gold ring from the thumb of her left hand, she placed it on one of my fingers. I allowed her to do so with a smile. 'You love me,' she said; 'nothing shall ever separate us,' and before I could say another word she fled as does the gazelle before the hunter. I followed her with my eyes as long as I could, and then when she had disappeared round a corner I thoughtfully took my way to my father's hut."
The chief paused. After a few minutes the Canadian, finding that the other was not disposed to continue, touched him gently on the arm.
"Why did Numank-Charake show such want of confidence in his brother?" asked the Canadian, reproachfully.
"What does my brother Bright-eye mean?" asked the chief, with slight embarrassment.
"My brother knows what I mean," said the Canadian, with great animation. "Born almost the same day, brought up together, having made our first trails together on the prairies, as also our first expedition against the Sioux and Piekanns, our hearts melted into one, I thought we had no secrets. I know who is the woman whom my brother loves, but why let me guess all about it, instead of telling me? Have I done anything to offend?"
"Oh, Bright-eye, don't think that," cried the young man, eagerly; "but love delights in mystery."
"And yet it likes to confide its sorrows and its joys to the heart of a friend. On that very same night when she had this interview with the chief, Evening Dew—Nouma Hawa—on her return to her hut, told her brother all. Her heart overflowed with joy, and she could not repress her feelings."
"Then Evening Dew owned her love to Bright-eye?"
"Am I not her brother, and your best friend?"
"True. Let my brother forgive me; I was wrong not to place confidence in him. Perhaps I was fearful he might disapprove of it."
"On the contrary, it carries out my dearest wishes, and binds us more and more to one another."
"My brother is better than I am, his heart is better; he will pardon the weakness of a friend."
"On one condition," said the hunter, laughing; "that Numank-Charake has no more secrets."
"I promise you," continued the chief, in a low, sad tone; "what I have now to say is very terrible. But the friends of Numank-Charake must know all. Two moons had elapsed since I and Evening Dew had spoken. I had not been able to carry out my projects. One day I again met her near the ark of the first man. 'The chief has forgotten his promise,' she said. 'No,' I replied; 'tomorrow I will keep it.' I left her with only a few more words. Next day I began to carry out my promise. I prepared everything, even the usual ceremonies were carried out—those you know so well."
"One moment," interrupted Oliver. "Bright-eye, brought up in your villages, knows all about them, but I, as a mere stranger, know not what you mean. As I mean to live with you, I should like to know a little."
"My brother is right," said the chief; "I will tell him the whole expedition. Before starting, the turf was taken off a considerable square of earth, the mould being made soft and pliable with the hands. It was then surrounded by stakes. When all was ready I went in and sat at the end opposed to the direction in which the enemy lived. After singing and praying, I put on the edge of the open space two little white stones."
"After waiting half an hour in prayer, asking the Wacondah to guide me right, the village crier, or hachesto, approached. I gave him my orders. He turned and invited all the great warriors to smoke; then in their turn the inferior warriors were invited. After all had smoked, everyone examined the result of the ko-sau-ban-zich-egass. The white stones had fallen in the direction of a well-known path."
"And what was the result?" asked Bright-eye.
"The Wacondah favoured his children. The path led towards the land of our hereditary foes, the Sioux of the West."
"Good," said the hunter.
"Our party consisted of a hundred and fifty warriors, the picked men of the nation, armed with guns. Every man carried the offerings to be cast away on the field of battle, and hidden, if possible, in the entrails of our foes."
"A pious custom," said Bright-eye.
Oliver looked at the Canadian, wondering whether he spoke seriously or not. But there was no doubt of his good faith.
"Two days later we started. A small band of twenty presently joined us, commanded by Tubash-Shah, the Cheat. My brother knows this restless and ambitious chief. I offered to yield the command to him. My warriors would not consent. Misunderstandings soon arose. Crossing some vast prairies, we began to feel great thirst, and Tubash at once violated the laws of war. I knew that water was not far off. The greater number of the elder warriors, who had to walk, were exhausted by heat and fatigue. Tubash sent out mounted scouts, and private signals were agreed on. Soon a small river was discovered. Those who got first to it fired guns, but before the detachments and the laggers had got up to the river, the sufferings of most of us were excessive. Some vomited blood, others were delirious. The expedition was a failure. Next day desertions began among the warriors of Tubash, he setting the first example. Soon I had only five-and-twenty men left. They offered to follow me to the end of the world. But what could I do? With despair in my soul I turned homeward. Halfway our scouts gave the alarm. An hour later we were engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict with the Sioux. Their party, six times as numerous as ours, was luckily composed chiefly of young warriors on their first warpath. Our defence was so desperate, that the Sioux yielded and fled. We were masters of the field, but out of four-and-twenty only ten were alive, and these were badly wounded."
"It would be too terrible to tell the story of our sufferings on the way home. We found that all was known about the expedition. But all the sachems acclaimed us, the more that I brought back the scalps of eighteen Sioux who had fallen on the field of battle. But if my honour was safe, my happiness was lost. Evening Dew was gone."
"My sister abducted?" cried Bright-eye.
"No," said the other, sadly, "not abducted. She went away of her own accord."
"Of her own accord?" repeated the hunter.
"During the absence of Bright-eye and myself, a paleface came to the village. This man, it appears, for your father and grandfather refused any explanation, is a relative of my brother. After remaining a week he went away, accompanied by your father. Evening Dew followed, weeping bitterly. Still she offered no resistance to the orders of her father. Three days after your father returned to his tribe. He was alone. What had become of the lovely young girl none could tell me. I made the most minute inquiries without any result. Not knowing what else to do, I then sent a warrior to my brother to appoint a meeting. Here I am, my friend—what am I to do?"
"I tell you, chief, that your extraordinary story is inexplicable to me. I cannot advise."
"Allow me to speak," said Oliver, "I am wholly disinterested in the matter. I can therefore speak with that calmness which suits neither of you at this moment."
"Speak!" cried the two young men.
"My advice is, to start at daybreak for the village. The father of Bright-eye may have reasons for refusing explanations to the chief. Family matters are sacred. But the brother of Evening Dew has a right to demand a full explanation. I am certain it will be given to him by his father, who can have no reason for being mysterious with him. Let us then away to the village. Successful or not, we shall know what to do. In every case, my dear friend and brother, count on me."
"What says the chief?" asked Bright-eye.
"The chief thanks Bounding Panther," replied the young man, warmly; "his heart is loyal, and his soul generous. His advice is good and should be followed. With two such friends, the redskin warrior is certain of success."
The conversation then continued for some time on a subject always interesting to a lover and a brother. Then, after throwing a pile of dry wood on the fire, the three men rolled themselves in their blankets, and lay down on the ground.
The two wood rangers lay face downwards, according to Indian custom. As for Oliver, he lay on his side with his feet to the fire. At the first hoot of an owl—the first bird which announces the rising of the sun—the chief wakened his companions, and ten minutes later they started on their journey.
The traveller who for the first time reaches the Rocky Mountains is amazed at the pile of hills above hills, called by the early discoverer the Sierra of the River of the Wind, that immense reservoir whence flows so many great streams, some flowing into the Atlantic, others into the Pacific.
We now transport our readers to a fork formed by a rather extensive stream, flowing from the Mountains of the Wind, just before it joins the Missouri, in the centre of a vast and delicious valley.
This charming spot, enchanting in its aspect, was covered by scattered thickets, young trees, fat pasturages, and watered by many rills, which fell in all directions in silver cascades from the mountains, and finally lost themselves in the Missouri.
This unknown Eden, buried in the mountains, had been discovered by a hardy explorer, and already the hand of man was at work destroying its savage grandeur. In a word, the squatters were at work.
Squatters are generally men of restless habits, greedy of exertions, no matter what they may be, impatient of control, and sworn enemies of the peaceful and regular life of the great centres of population. Gifted with the courage of a lion, of a will—or, rather, obstinacy—which nothing can conquer, these men of indomitable energy, in whose hearts ferment the most violent passions, are the true pioneers of the desert and the vanguard of civilisation in the New World.
Accustomed to place themselves above the law, as soon as the tide of civilisation always rising reaches them, they abandon without regret all they possess—houses and land—and snatching up their hatchets, bury themselves gaily still further in the desert, until they find another suitable site, on which they squat.
There is no one to contest their claim. At all events, to do so would be a rather imprudent enterprise, for they at once appeal to their rifle, and make that the legal arbitrator.
Joshua Dickson was a true specimen of a squatter; his whole life had been one long pilgrimage across the States of the Union. Weary of rambling within the purlieus of civilisation, where he always felt uneasy, one day, as we have already recorded, he came to a final resolution, and, abandoning all that he possessed, he started with his family and servants in search of a land where none before had ever set their foot.
We cannot relate all the incidents of his journey without guide or map. They would fill a volume. We come to the point. One night they had fixed their camp near a very narrow and wooded gorge. It appearing to be rather a difficult spot to travel in the dark, and there being no hurry, they had halted by a small stream, in the midst of a green prairie, which offered admirable pasturage for their beasts and horses.
Before daybreak, while his companions still slept, Samuel Dickson rose, took his rifle, and advanced in the direction of the defile, with the double object of examining the locality and of shooting, if possible, two or three head of game for the morning repast, provisions being rare in camp, so much so that the night before they had gone to bed almost without supper.
Harry Dickson, who acted as sentry, alone saw him go out, but as his uncle did not speak, he did not venture to make any observation.
Samuel Dickson went away with his rifle on his shoulder, whistling "Yankee Doodle," and shortly after disappeared in the tall grass without his nephew being able to make out in what direction he had gone.
Seen by the light of morn the defile was not so choked up by trees and bushes as it had seemed in the dusk of the evening; the entrance only was marked by a curtain of young trees, which would easily succumb to a few blows of a hatchet.
The American pushed forward, cutting a passage with his bowie knife, resolved to reach the extremity of the defile, in order to examine it thoroughly and report to his brother.
Suddenly a moose deer bounded across his path.
"There is a demon who does not suffer from rheumatism. How he runs! But remember, my friend, that's your breakfast."
With which words he took to his heels, and, catching sight of the deer, followed him up through the dense undergrowth, without being able to get a shot at him. This went on for about twenty minutes, during which, his rifle at full cock, he never looked to the right or left. Suddenly the moose deer stood still, as if he sniffed another enemy in the direction in which he was going.
The American lost no time, but took steady aim for a second or two and fired.
The stricken deer bounded into the air, and then once more took to its heels.
But the hunter was determined not to lose him. Unhappily, however, in his eagerness, he did not look before him, and just as he thought the deer began to droop, while he increased his speed his foot slipped and he went head over heels, falling a height of about fifteen feet, to alight upon a kind of pavement of hard flint stones.
The fall was so heavy that the American not only was bruised all over, but fainted.
A feeling of coolness suddenly came over him, and caused him to open his eyes.
He looked wildly around him, and saw a young man of about seven-and-twenty, in the costume of a trapper, his handsome face bent over him with a look of deep solicitude, while he bathed his face with a handkerchief soaked with water.
"Are you better, Mr. Samuel?" said the other.
"Hem!" cried the American; "Am I mad?"
"Not in the least, Master Samuel, at least, that I am aware of," was the reply.
"But what has happened?" cried the other, with an awful grimace.
"A very simple thing: you shot a deer, and in your eagerness to catch him you did not notice that you were on the summit of an eminence, and so rolled over, to the detriment of your bones."
"A very simple thing!" groaned the other; "You speak very complacently, Master George. Is anything broken?"
"Nothing. I examined you carefully—nothing but bruises, of that I am sure."
"Cursed deer! If I only had secured it. But the brute escaped me after all."
"No, my friend. You are too good a shot to miss your aim. There lies your game, quite dead."
"Thank goodness! That is lucky. But oh! Oh! I feel as if I had received a severe beating. Help me up."
"But had you not better rest a while?"
"Go to the deuce. I am not a whining sniggler, like my niece," he began; "by the way," he added, "that puts me in mind! Young man—"
"Allow me to help you up—take my arm. I am strong; so lean as heavily as you like. There, you are all right. Your rifle will serve you as a staff."
Thanks to the assistance of the young man, the American contrived to stand on his legs, making horrible grimaces and groaning all the time.
"I wish my brother had been anywhere, with his mad notion of emigration," he said, grumbling; "but that is not the immediate question. Will you answer me?"
"I am quite ready. You cannot carry the deer—shall I hang it up in safety until you send for it?"
"Will you answer me?" cried Samuel, ferociously.
"You have not yet asked me any question," said the young man, gently.
The American looked at him with considerable anger in his glance; then his muscles relaxing, he burst out laughing.
"Forgive me, George," he said, offering his hand. "I am an old fool. I am trying to get up a quarrel with you, instead of thanking you for your kindness. In truth, I believe you have saved my life."
"You exaggerate, Mr. Samuel," replied the other.
"Between you and me, I don't think so. What would have become of me, fainting in the desert?"
"Chance brought me here."
"Oh, yes! Chance has very broad shoulders," answered the American: "I suppose it brought you out here."
The young man held down his head and blushed.
"Well, well, I won't tease you, George," cried Samuel; "you are a noble and generous fellow, and I loved your father."
"As you do his son," responded the other.
"I suppose it is so. But this being understood, let us talk like two old friends."
"I am at your command."
"Always the same eternal chorus. Now I do not want to dive into your secrets, but without going beyond the limits of politeness, allow me to ask you one simple question," said Samuel.
"Ask; and if it be in my power, I will answer truthfully," replied the other.
"Hem! You are confoundedly close. First let us sit down. I am all aches and pains."
The young man gently led him to a soft mound of turf, helped him to be seated, and followed his example.
"Now I am good for an hour. Let us chat."
"I am your most obedient servant to command."
"How is it, Mr. George Clinton," began the old man, with a sly look, "that three months ago I left you at Boston at the head of a large house of business, and that I now find you dressed like a runner of the woods, hundreds of miles from the nearest settlement, just ready to save my life."
"If my journey served me no other purpose, I am thankful—still I own there is another motive."
"I am glad to hear you say so. May I ask its nature?"
"Well, Master Samuel," began Clinton, "I am young, vigorous, and passionately fond of field sports; I am a good shot, and very much inclined for a free and independent life. Many times while at Boston chance brought me in contact with persons who have accomplished wonderful journeys into the almost unknown interior of our vast continent, and who brought back astounding accounts of what they saw; my curiosity was aroused, and I felt within myself a strong desire to attempt one of these expeditions in search of the unknown."
"Or the ideal," smiled the American.
"If you like it. As long as my father was alive I kept my ideas to myself, but as soon as my actions were quite free my old ideas were revived. An opportunity presented itself which I eagerly embraced. Confiding my house of business to a trustworthy partner, I started."
"You had a definite object, I suppose?"
"No; I went wherever chance or my feelings urged me," the other answered.
"My young friend," said Dickson, laughing, "chance plays too great a part in all this. You will excuse me if I don't believe a word of your story."
"You are not generous, sir."
"I am not generous?"
"You will not believe that a young man could give way to his adventurous instincts; and yet you, a wise man, very much older than I am, you, whose position was settled, I find you here, without being able to give the slightest explanation of your conduct."
"Well answered, George. You hit me hard, but you know I am an old fool. I am so, as sure as fate. Yes, my friend, I am mad enough for a straitjacket. But at the same time, I can see that you will not make me your confidant."
"I assure you—" began Clinton.
"What is the use of holding out any longer? You must rely on me in the end; but when you do come to me with the truth, it will be my turn."
"You are not angry with me?"
"No, my boy: keep your secrets; but remember I am your friend. Keep your own counsel then, if you will—it concerns only yourself. But remember, whenever you want me, I am ready," he answered.
"I know not how to thank you."
"What nonsense! You owe me nothing. It is I who am your debtor. But it is getting late, and I must return to the camp, where they must be getting anxious. Thanks to my rest I feel not only able to walk, but to carry the confounded deer."
"Wait, however, while I clean and skin him. It will then be easier."
"You are quite right. Be quick, as we are short of food."
"But the country is enormously rich in game, and what a beautiful spot!"
"It certainly is," replied Samuel, after which his young friend soon prepared the game so as to be easily carried.
"And now take my arm while I lead you through the defile, which is the only way out of the valley."
And so they started, Samuel walking much better than he expected, though suffering much.
"One favour," said the young man, after a time.
"What is it, my friend?" asked Samuel.
"Say not one word of our meeting."
"Since you wish it, I will be strictly silent on the subject. Like other people I know, I will invent some sort of story—it is not difficult."
The young man smiled, and shook him heartily by the hand. Then Samuel Dickson walked away in the direction of the camp, while George busied himself in the valley.
After Samuel had walked some distance he found that he had miscalculated his strength. He was very weak about the ankle, and the way being rude and his load heavy, he could scarcely get along at all. Still he would not abandon the deer, knowing as he did how short of provisions they were in the camp.
Wiping the cold perspiration off his brow, the brave American resumed his journey.
The sufferings he endured it would be impossible to describe; at length he became scarcely able to drag one foot before the other; every now and then he had to stop, as the blood rushed to his head and myriad sparkles flashed before his eyes. He seemed to have the vertigo, his mouth was parched, his chest panting, his temples throbbing, and his eyes almost starting from his head.
When he had staggered to within five hundred feet of the camp he was utterly exhausted, and fell insensible on the grass, where he remained inert and motionless for a quarter of an hour. Luckily, as he roused himself, he found a small rivulet flowing at his feet. In this he bathed his hands and face, and felt better.
But he could walk no farther; that he knew was impossible. He, however, suspected they were looking for him, and if they heard him would come to his assistance. His voice was powerless to reach them. There remained his rifle. Still seated on the ground, he loaded and fired three times in succession.
He had not long to wait before he saw his brother and nephews running towards him.
He was too weak to enter upon any explanations, but one nephew taking up the deer and the other their uncle, they at once made for the camp, where Mrs. Dickson and Diana anxiously awaited them.
When they saw the hunter they believed him dead.
Joshua had a great deal of difficulty in persuading them that he had only fainted, and was in no danger.
The Americans, especially the hunters and trappers, have great experience in wounds and bruises.
The sick man was at once carried to a covered waggon, placed upon a mattress, and stripped.
"Heavens!" cried Joshua, as he examined the numerous black bruises, "Poor Samuel has indeed had a bad fall. I wonder he was not killed outright."
"Fortunate nothing is broken," said the eldest son.
"So it is," replied the father; "and now let us do the best we can for him while your mother cooks the deer meat for breakfast. It was for us poor Sam risked his life. Get the camphorated brandy and some wool, and don't forget to tell your mother to cook the game. She is rather apt to burn venison, which does not improve its flavour. While you are about it bring the rum bottle—a little poured down his throat will do him good. Above all, be quick."
Having given these orders, Joshua bathed his brother's forehead with cold water, passed burnt feathers under his nose, and did everything which could be done under the circumstances. Still the sick man never moved.
"Let us try the rum," he said, as his son returned.
And as he spoke, he forced open the other's teeth with the blade of his knife, and putting the neck of the bottle to his mouth, let the liquor slip through.
Samuel smacked his lips and opened his eyes.
"That is something like. And now to work."
The two men then, dipping the wool in camphorated brandy, began to rub the bruises.
Such a remedy, so roughly employed, was very soon quite efficacious. The sick man sat up, howling furiously, and trying to escape from their clutches.
But the two men, believing in the remedy, continued, and, despite all their victim could say, despite his prayers, howls, and curses, he finally had to submit to the treatment for half an hour.
"There you are," cried Joshua; "now try and sleep."
"Go to old Nick!" roared Samuel; "I'm skinned alive."
"You are as fussy as a woman. We scarcely touched you. Tonight we shall do it again perfectly, and tomorrow you will be quite well," said Joshua.
Samuel shuddered, but said nothing; shortly after he, however, slept soundly. At night the two men came again, and, despite his lamentations, protestations, and prayers, continued to rub him as before, with all the vigour of which their hands and arms were capable.
Then Joshua told his brother to go to sleep, promising if in the morning he was not quite well to give him one more dose.
But Samuel was up first, and when they came to find him, he was dressed, singing "Yankee Doodle."
His brother was delighted, and while wishing him joy, highly eulogised his remedy, the very mention of which caused Samuel to shudder.
He was then questioned as to his adventure, which he related, leaving out all mention, however, of George Clinton. They were at breakfast, and everyone listened with avidity. The ladies especially, who were weary of their journey, heard the description of the beautiful valley with extreme delight.
"To conclude, I beg to remark," Samuel wound up by saying, "that I never saw a spot better suited for a settlement."
"We shall see," drily remarked Joshua.
Samuel knew his brother well, and was well aware how he should be treated.
"As for myself," he added, with indifference, "I don't care where or when we stop. As we have gone so far in the desert, what matters fifty leagues more or less? Let us then go ahead. Push on by all means, even as far as the Bay of Hudson."
"I don't want to go as far as that," cried Joshua; "if the valley's anything like what you say, perhaps we may stop."
"Well, perhaps it may not suit you. Everybody, you know, to their taste," continued Samuel.
"I shall judge for myself," replied Joshua.
"If we are to stop here all day," Samuel urged, quite satisfied, "I and Harry will fetch the deerskin."
"Why not go with me?" said his brother.
"I shall be delighted with your company."
"Then, by Jove, we'll all go. It will be a walk. Harry, Sam, Jack, tell Sandy to be ready for a start. Let the camp be raised. Tonight we will camp in the valley and examine it at our ease."
"You raise the camp for so small a journey?" said Mrs. Dickson.
"Does it displease you, mistress?"
"No. But it is a useless fatigue for horses and men."
"I shall do as I think proper," said the squatter, drily, as he went to hurry his men.
Samuel Dickson and the ladies smiled. They knew now they would stop in the valley.
An hour later the whole caravan took its way in the direction of the defile, preceded by a dozen of the hired men and others with hatchets, to act as pioneers.
Though he declared his health was quite restored, Samuel Dickson, instead of riding on horseback, clambered into a waggon with his sister-in-law and niece, with whom he gaily discoursed.
Every now and then the old farmer looked sideways at the countenance of his pale and thoughtful niece, smiled to himself, and rubbed his hands with intense satisfaction.
Neither mother nor daughter could make out his pantomime, but after a few trials they knew it was useless to question him, and so let him chuckle to himself.
Joshua Dickson, without allowing it to be seen, had been very much struck by what his brother had said. Instead, therefore, of riding beside the caravan as usual, he had gone on in front.
Presently, as if no longer able to resist the impulse of curiosity which was devouring him, he signed to his three sons to follow, and next minute the four men were off at a hard gallop and were soon lost in the defile.
"The fish is in the net," said Samuel Dickson, with a hearty laugh.
"Is the valley so beautiful as you say?" asked Mrs. Dickson.
"Much more so. It is simply a terrestrial paradise. If you were to hunt for months you would never find a more agreeable or advantageous position. Everything is to be found in abundance, wood, water, pasture, and above all, game."
"If Joshua would only settle."
"A good deal depends on you."
"I have not the influence you suppose over my husband. You know his vagabond humour."
"He will remain here if you wish him to."
"I hope you are right," replied the wife, with a sigh.
"Chut! Here he comes. Attention, this is the decisive moment," whispered Samuel, as Joshua came up.
"Holloa!" he cried, "I have come from the valley."
"Did you find the deerskin I left behind?"
"Deerskin be—" was the excited answer; "I had no time to think of it. But what a delicious valley! I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life."
"It is certainly pretty fair, but not worthy of such frantic eulogy," said Samuel.
"What a man you are!" cried Joshua; "You must always disagree with me. The moment I like a thing you must depreciate it."
"Do you then mean to make some stay in the valley?" asked Mrs. Dickson, innocently enough.
"Some stay, mistress!" cried the husband; "What are you dreaming about? I mean to take the whole valley. It belongs to no one now. It shall therefore be ours—that is, mine and my brother's."
"I want very little," said Samuel.
"You shall have your right share, no more and no less. Do you think I would cheat you?"
"Far from me be such a thought."
"But, my dear," said the wife, "pray think."
"I have thought," he replied, abruptly; "and my resolution is irrevocable. So thoroughly have I made up my mind that I have come back alone, leaving the children at work."
"At work!" cried Samuel.
"Yes; they are cutting down trees and clearing the ground. This will be so much gained, as the season is far advanced, and we have not a moment to lose if we would have our settlement quite ready for the winter."
All this while the caravan was advancing, and by degrees had got halfway through the defile.
"This narrow way might easily be stopped," said Joshua.
"Very useful idea, as many redskins are about."
"But we are very numerous."
"Yes; but if we are attacked we have no neighbours to help us, and must count only on ourselves alone."
"We shall be sufficient," drily responded Joshua.
"I hope so, and yet I doubt if the Indians leave us in peaceable possession if game is as abundant as I believe."
"Bah! Who cares? If the Indians come we will give them such a reception as shall astonish them."
"Who lives longest will see the most. It is best to be prudent," responded Samuel.
The squatter, half angry at his brother's manner, gave up the conversation, and, spurring his horse, disappeared.
"Now," said Samuel, with a smile, as the other rode off, "you may be satisfied. Joshua is sufficiently annoyed at my opposition to become seriously obstinate. Nothing will make him change his mind now."
"Perhaps you went a little too far."
"Not a bit, I only stimulated him."
"But what you said about the Indians made me seriously uneasy. Are there any about?"
"I suppose so, as we are in the very centre of their territory. They may not attack us if let alone."
"But this valley may belong to them."
"Then we shall have to negotiate with the tribe to which the place belongs. We shall buy it of the redskins—a thing done every day."
"You ought to know Joshua better by this time. He will take the land, and refuse all compromises."
"I know him; but should the contingency come, we must make him listen to reason. But look, we are entering on the confines of this garden of Eden, which henceforth will be all our own," cried Samuel.
"What a magnificent country!" cried the squatter's wife.
Miss Diana, despite her sadness and habit of concentrated thought, could not restrain an exclamation of surprise at the sight of the grand spectacle before her.
"Don't be too enthusiastic," said Samuel. "Here is Joshua."
A hundred paces off Joshua had halted, his sons beside him on horseback, gun in hand. The squatter held the American flag in his right hand. As soon as all the waggons were in the valley he signed to everybody to advance.
All the serving men and women surrounded the squatter. His wife, daughter, and Samuel remained in the waggon.
The squatter, making his horse prance, waved the American flag over his head, then he planted the staff in the earth, and cried in a loud firm voice:
"I take possession of this wild territory by the right of the first occupant I proclaim myself its sole lord and master, and if anyone, white or black, dares to claim it, I will defend myself to the last gasp."
"Hurrah! Long live America!" cried all.
"My friends," continued the trapper, "we are now at home. This valley which we shall soon cultivate and bring to prosperity and civilisation, is the Valley of the Deer."
"Long live the Valley of the Deer!" cried all.
The squatter then headed the caravan, and led it to the spot he had selected for a settlement. It was twelve o'clock. At a little after two the ancient trees were falling beneath the axes of the Americans.
The activity of the North Americans is prodigious; they have a peculiar way of handling the axe which is marvellous. Their mode of procedure is almost incomprehensible, and goes beyond anything the imagination can conceive.
Fifty American woodmen will in a month clear the whole of a vast forest tract.
They always begin with the idea, a very logical one, though a proud one, that the modest plantation they commence may in time become an important town, and they act accordingly. The land is divided into lots, paths traced by the axe stand for streets, large open spaces represent squares, while notched trees indicate where the houses, shops, workshops, and other buildings are to be.
As soon as this is all settled they go to work with feverish haste, and trees of vast dimensions fall with a rapidity which is simply amazing.
Then they build the stables and sheds, then the blacksmith's forge, the carpenter's shop, and the water sawmill, of which the workmen at once take possession.
The earth, still encumbered by the roots of trees, is dug up and sown at once. Everything goes on at the same time with the utmost regularity and industry.
In a few days the landscape is completely changed, and there, where had existed a virgin forest, with all its deep and impenetrable mysteries, suddenly arises, as if by means of the enchanted wand, the embryo of a town, which ten years later will be a rich flourishing emporium of commerce, and of which the population, coming from all parts of the world, will perhaps be fifty or sixty thousand.
But the squatter, the founder of the new city, will have disappeared, without leaving a trace behind. Nobody knows anything about him, not even his name. His work done, he will have taken his melancholy departure, frightened to see the desert so populated, and that civilisation from which he had fled so near; he probably has fled out West in search of a new virgin land, which he will transform like the first, without deriving any more advantage from it, finally to end his days, shot in some miserable Indian ambuscade, or killed by the claws of a grizzly, or perhaps dies of misery and hunger in some unknown corner of the prairie.
Joshua Dickson did not act differently from his fellows; after dividing the valley into two, and handing over half to his brother, he fixed his residence near the fork of the two rivers. Samuel Dickson fixed his residence at the other end of the valley, near the river called the Deer River.
Everybody then set to work, and with such rapidity that before three weeks were over the principal buildings were finished. The houses, built with trees from the trunks of which the bark had not been removed, piled one upon the other, and fastened together by iron clamps and long wooden nails, looked comfortable with their glass windows furnished inside with strong shutters, and their mud and brick chimneys from which the smoke already escaped in a bluish cloud.
All the servants and hired men had erected themselves, not exactly houses, but bark huts. They were, however, only temporary residences, soon to be replaced by more solid and eligible residences.
The ordinary means of defence so necessary in an Indian country had not been neglected; a solid double stockade of young trees surrounded the camp; the centre of this rampart was occupied by a ditch ten feet wide and fifteen deep.
There were several drawbridges, which were raised every night, by means of which only could the settlement be reached; near every one of these was a redoubt of stone, surmounted by stakes, behind which, in case of attack, the garrison could place themselves. All the houses were moreover loopholed.
Every night some twenty formidable dogs of the race formerly used by the Spaniards to hunt down the Indians, and until lately kept to track Negro slaves by the Americans, that is to say, bloodhounds, were let loose.
One morning, shortly after sunrise, Miss Diana, accompanied by her own enormous and favourite dog, quitted the Point, her father's habitation, for the residence of Samuel Dickson.
Very busy each about their own affairs, the brothers were often two days without seeing each other, the more so that their respective residences were quite three miles apart.
Joshua Dickson, whose activity was immense, struck with amazement at sight of the magnificent waterpower at his door, and which he little suspected was the Missouri, had asked himself one day where these waters flowed to. He came at last to the conclusion that on its way to the sea it must run through some state of the Union.
Then, imbued with that commercial spirit which is innate in the Americans, he at once saw the value of the river as available for the carriage of his produce, as well as to obtain supplies for the colony. He therefore resolved to make a journey down the river, and reach the first settlement, and this as soon as the heavier labours were over.
Now with the squatter to resolve was to act, and even before anything else was finished he had set to work to construct a canoe sufficiently large to carry four persons, with victuals for a long journey, and strong enough to bear a voyage of some hundreds of miles.
The boat had been finished the night before, and Joshua Dickson, eager to begin his journey, had sent his daughter over to Dickson Point, to confer with his brother as to what was to be done in his absence. But neither Samuel nor Diana knew anything of Joshua's projects.
Joshua was one of those men who, without being deceitful, was very reticent, and never told his thoughts.
Diana, like a true heroine, traversed the faintly traced paths which led to her uncle's house, a hunting knife in her belt, and light gun in her hand. For further safety she was accompanied by Dardar, a large black and white dog, something between a wolf and a Newfoundland, terribly ferocious, and of mighty strength, as tall as a good-sized donkey, and who would have tackled a bear in defence of his mistress, whom he obeyed with the docility of a child.
With such a guardian Diana had nothing to fear from man or beast; moreover, the country was too little known to the squatters to allow a young girl to go out quite unprotected in the country, however short the distance.
Contrary to her usual mood, the young girl was quite joyous; her freedom, which allowed her to give free vent to her thoughts, had driven away the tinge of sadness which generally clouded her beautiful face.
She went along careless and dreaming through the fields, playing with Dardar, who, proud of the charge he was set to guard, ran wildly before her, dashing into the bushes and thickets with an intelligent glance that was almost human.
The young girl soon reached the river, where a kind of ferryboat had been provided by means of which to cross the river, here neither broad nor deep. In a few minutes Diana was across and within sight of her uncle's residence.
Inside the log hut, which was extensive, were seated two men, with a bottle of whisky before them. These were Samuel Dickson himself and George.
Two horses, still saddled and smoking, were fastened in the court. They must have been on a long journey.
"You are a pretty fellow to make me gallop about in this way in search of you. I am not very handsome, but I am not ugly enough to frighten you."
"I simply did not see you."
"No nonsense. Do you think to keep me in ignorance of your motive in coming this way?"
The young man blushed deeply.
"Do you know my brother Joshua?" asked Samuel.
"I met him once or twice in Boston, but I do not think he ever noticed me," said George Clinton.
"Shall I introduce you to him?" said Samuel. "He has his faults, but he is a very worthy man."
"I don't think it would be wise just now."
"I don't think," continued the American, "that you have waited to be introduced to my niece."
"Sir," cried the young man, dropping his glass.
"Ah, ah!" cried the American, laughing, "That is the way you break my crockery. These lovers, these lovers. Do you think to cheat an old opossum like me? You love my pretty niece, which is very natural; you are a good fellow, and together will make an excellent couple."
"I regret to say it cannot be so," sighed George.
"Why so?" cried Samuel.
"I see you are so good, I can no longer refuse to enlighten you."
"That is right. Confess, for I am your true friend."
"What I have to say," began George, "is not much. I met Miss Diana at Boston at Mrs. Marshall's, where your niece stayed for some months last year. I was on very good terms with your relative."
"Yes, yes; my cousin," said Samuel.
"Need I say that from the first moment I saw her I loved your niece? My visits to Mrs. Marshall, once only occasional, became so frequent that the lady began to have suspicion of my intentions. She at once called me on one side, and while giving me every credit for loyalty and worth, she told me not to prosecute my attentions, as Diana's father would never consent to our marriage. Despite all my entreaties, however, she would give me no reason, until at last, yielding to my earnest entreaties, she explained that many years before there had been such a quarrel between my father and Joshua Dickson that any alliance between our families must ever prove impossible."
Samuel listened with extreme anxiety.
"You see yourself that I am right," said the young man.
"You are mistaken," cried the other; "the matter is rather serious, I allow. I really had forgotten that old affair. But don't ask me any questions; all I say is, have courage. Circumstances will probably alter, and believe me that in Samuel Dickson you will have a sincere friend."
"I should be only too glad to help."
"When I am on your side nothing is difficult. Now to breakfast. But how did you know of my brother's coming out here?" suddenly cried Samuel.
"Miss Diana told me herself."
"Oh, oh! Then I wonder no longer. To breakfast."
"I hope, Master Samuel, you will excuse me," began the other, taking up his hunter's cap.
"Sit down; if my niece were here you would not go."
"Can I come in?" suddenly said a soft voice at the door, a voice that made George start.
This sudden coincidence utterly overcame the old man's gravity, and, throwing himself back in his chair, he screamed with laughter, while Diana stood transfixed in the doorway, and George Clinton simply turned his cap round in his hand without being able to articulate a word.
It was Dardar who ended the scene.
The dog had remained outside for a moment or two, and then, seeing the door open, had rushed right into the middle of the room; seeing George Clinton he rushed at him, wagging his tail first, and then, leaping up, his paws on either shoulder, he licked his face with a joyous whine.
"By heavens!" cried the squatter, "The fellow is lucky. Everyone likes him, even that precious Dardar, and yet he despairs. Come in, Sly Boots, and kiss your uncle."
She did not require twice asking.
"You are welcome, mademoiselle," he said, with mock politeness. "I suppose I need not introduce you to yonder tall young fellow?"
"I have known the gentleman some time," replied the young girl, holding out her hand, which George took and kissed.
"That's right," cried Samuel, rubbing his hands; "all goes well. And now once more I say, to breakfast. I am dying with hunger. We can talk while we eat, and you, Diana, can explain your early visit. I suppose you have not come three miles in the dew to kiss your old uncle?"
"Why not?" she said, with a smile.
"And you expected to meet nobody," he answered. But seeing that Diana blushed, he continued, "But no more delay," and seated himself.
The beginning of the meal was rather constrained, from the peculiar position of the young people. But the ice was soon broken; the squatter was merry and humorous; he avoided any pointed allusions, and the conversation, at first very meagre, soon became very pleasant.
When Samuel heard the object of Diana's visit, he promised to go over in the evening, and then questioned George as to his travels.
George at once proceeded to tell his story with so much wit and humour as to amuse uncle and niece.
"Now," said Samuel, when breakfast was over, "listen to me. You are two charming young people, whom I love, and whose happiness I desire. But you must let me act in my own way. I know my brother well, and can do as I like with him. Look upon me as an ally, but commit no imprudence. Instead now of going with my niece, you must stop here. If you were seen together, we cannot say what might happen. At all times my house is open to you. Come as often as you like, but remember, courage and prudence, Diana, kiss me again, and then farewell."
"My darling uncle," she cried, embracing him.
"Oh, yes, very dear, because I do what you like."
"Au revoir, George," she continued.
"But when shall I see you again? Time appears so long."
"Already he grumbles," cried Samuel.
"Pardon me, but I love her so much."
"And do I not love you?" she said, naively.
"I am mad," he answered, tenderly, kissing her hand a second time as he spoke.
Then Diana went out, guarded by Dardar.
"Now," said Samuel, as soon as they were alone, "you must enter into fuller explanations, and explain where you have pitched your tent. I hope you are in no difficulty."
"Be easy on that point. I have a hut in a charming situation about twelve miles off. Will you come and see it?" added George Clinton.