[1]Thefelis discolorof Linnæus, or American lion.
[1]Thefelis discolorof Linnæus, or American lion.
Natah Otann feigned not to have perceived the Count's smile.
"Now that you have recovered," he said to Prairie-Flower, in a gentler tone than he at first assumed towards her, "mount your horse, and return to the village. Red Wolf will accompany you; perhaps," he added, with an Indian smile, "we may again come across cougars, and you are so frightened at them, that I believe I am doing you a service in begging you to withdraw."
The young girl, still trembling, bowed and mounted her horse. Red Wolf had involuntarily made a start of joy on hearing the order the chief gave him, but the latter, occupied with his thoughts, had not surprised it.
"One moment," Natah Otann went on, "if living lions frighten you, I know that in return you greatly value their furs; allow me to offer you these."
No one can equal the skill of Indians in flaying animals; in an instant the two lions, over which the vultures were already hovering and forming wide circles, were stripped of their rich hides, which were thrown across Red Wolfs horse. That animal, terrified by the smell that emanated from the skins, reared furiously, and almost unsaddled its rider, who had great difficulty in restraining it.
"Now go," the Chief said, drily, dismissing them with a haughty gesture.
Prairie-Flower and Red Wolf departed at a gallop; Natah Otann watched them for a long time, then let his head fall on his breast, as he uttered a deep sigh, and appeared plunged in gloomy thought. A moment later he felt a hand pressing heavily on his chest; he raised his head—White Buffalo was before him.
"What do you want with me?" he asked, angrily.
"Do you not know?" the old man said, looking at him fixedly.
Natah Otann quivered.
"It is true," he said, "the hour has arrived, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Are all precautions taken?"
"All."
"Come on then; but where are they?"
"Look at them."
While uttering these words, White Buffalo pointed to the Count and his comrades lying on the grass, at the skirt of a wood, about two hundred yards from the Indian encampment.
"Ah, they keep aloof," the Chief observed, bitterly.
"Is not that better for the conversation which we wish to have with them?"
"You are right."
The two men then walked up to the hunters without speaking again. The latter had really kept away, not through contempt for the Indians, but in order to be more at liberty. What had occurred after the death of the cougars, the brutal way in which the Chief spoke to Prairie-Flower, had vexed the Count, and it needed all the power he possessed over himself, and the entreaties of Bright-eye, to prevent him breaking out in reproaches of the Chief, whose conduct appeared to him unjustifiably coarse.
"Hum," he said, "this man is decidedly a ruffian: I am beginning to be of your opinion, Bright-eye."
"Bah! that is nothing yet," the latter replied, with a shrug of his shoulders; "we shall see plenty more, if we only remain a week with these demons."
While speaking, the Canadian had reloaded his rifle and pistols.
"Do as I do," he continued; "no one knows what may happen."
"What need of that precaution? are we not under the protection of the Indians, whose guests we are?"
"Possibly; but no matter, you had better follow my advice, for with Indians you can never answer for the future."
"There is considerable truth in what you say; what I have just seen does not at all inspire me with confidence."
The Count, therefore, began reloading his weapons; as for Ivon, he had not used his. The two Indian Chiefs came up at the moment the Count finished loading the last pistol.
"Oh, oh!" Natah Otann said, in French, saluting the young man with studied politeness, "have you scented any wild beast in the neighbourhood?"
"Perhaps so," the latter replied, as he returned his pistols to his belt.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Nothing but what I say."
"Unfortunately for me, doubtlessly, that is so subtile, that I do not understand it."
"I am sorry for it, sir; but I can only reply to you by an old Latin proverb."
"Which is?"
"What need to repeat it, as you do not understand Latin?"
"Suppose I do understand it?"
"Well, then, as you insist upon it, here it is—si vis pacem para bellum."
"Which means—" the Chief said, impertinently, while White Buffalo bit his lips.
"Which means—" the Count said.
"If you wish for peace, prepare for war," White Buffalo hurriedly interrupted.
"It was you who said it," the Count remarked, bowing with a mocking smile.
The three men stood face to face, like skilful duellists, who feel the adversary's sword before engaging, and who, having recognized themselves to be of equal strength, redouble their prudence before dealing a decisive thrust.
Bright-eye, though not understanding much of this skirmish of words, had still, through the distrust which was the basis of his character, given Ivon a side-glance, and both, though apparently inattentive, were ready for any event. After the Count's last remark there was a lengthened silence, which Natah Otann was the first to break.
"You believe yourself to be among enemies, then?" he asked, in a tone of wounded pride.
"I did not say so," he replied, "and such is not my thought; still, I confess that all I have seen during the last few days is so strange to me, that, in spite of all my attempts, I can form no settled opinion either about men or things, and that causes me deep reflection."
"Ah!" the Indian said, coldly, "and what is it so strange you see around you? Would you be kind enough to inform me?"
"I see no harm in doing so, if you wish it."
"You will cause me intense pleasure by explaining yourself."
"I am quite ready to do so; the more so, as I have ever been accustomed to express my thoughts freely, and I see no reason for disguising them today."
The two Chiefs bowed, and said nothing; the Count rested his hands on the muzzle of his gun, and continued, while regarding them fixedly—
"My faith, gentlemen, since you wish me to unveil my thoughts, you shall have them in their entirety: we are here in the wilds of the American prairies, that is, in the wildest countries of the new Continent; you are always on hostile terms with the whites; you Blackfeet are regarded as the most untameable, savage, and ferocious of the Indians; or, in other words, the most devoid of the civilization of all the aboriginal nations."
"Well," Natah Otann remarked, "what do you find strange in that? Is it our fault if our despoilers, since the discovery of the new world, have tracked us like wild beasts, driven us back in the desert, and regarded us as beings scarcely endowed with the instinct of the brute? You must blame them, and not us. By what right do you reproach us with a brutalization and barbarism, produced by our persecutors and not by ourselves?"
"You have not understood me, sir: if, instead of interrupting me, you had listened patiently a few minutes longer, you would have seen that I not merely do not reproach you for that brutalization, but pity it in my heart; for, although I have been only a few months in the desert, I have been on several occasions in a position to judge the unhappy race to which you belong, and appreciate the good qualities it still possesses, and which the odious tyranny of the whites has not succeeded in eradicating, despite all the means employed to attain that end."
The two Chiefs exchanged a glance of satisfaction; the generous words uttered by the young man gave them hopes as to the success of their negotiation.
"Pardon me, and pray continue," Natah Otann said, with a bow.
"I will do so:" the Count went on: "I repeat it, it was not that barbarism which astonished me, for I supposed it to be greater than it really is: what seemed strange to me was to find in the heart of the desert, where we now are, amid the ferocious Indians who surround us, two men, two Chiefs of these self-same Indians—I will not say civilized, for the word is not strong enough—but utterly conversant with all the secrets of the most advanced and refined civilization, speaking my maternal tongue with the most extreme purity, and seeming, in a word, to have nothing Indian about them, save the dress they wear. It seemed strange to me that two men, for an object I know not, changing in turn their manners and fashions, are at one moment savage Indians, at another perfect gentlemen; but instead of trying to raise their countrymen from the barbarism in which they pine, they wallow in it with them, feigning to be as ignorant and cruel as themselves. I confess to you, gentlemen, that all this not only appeared strange to me, but even frightened me."
"Frightened!" the two Chiefs exclaimed, simultaneously.
"Yes, frightened!" the Count continued, quickly; "for a life of continual feints, such as you lead, must conceal some dark plot. Lastly, I am frightened, because your conduct towards me, the urgency with which you sought to attract me amongst you, causes involuntary suspicions to spring up in my heart as to your secret intentions."
"And what are those suspicions, sir?" Natah Otann asked, haughtily.
"I am afraid that you wish to make me your accomplice in some scandalous deed."
These words, pronounced vehemently, burst like a thunderbolt on the ears of the two strange Chiefs; they were terrified by the perspicuity of the young man, and for several moments knew not what to say, to disculpate themselves.
"Sir!" Natah Otann at length exclaimed, violently.
White Buffalo checked him by a majestic gesture.
"It is my duty," he said, "to reply to our guest's words: in his turn, after the frank and loyal explanation he has given us, he has a right to one equally frank on our side."
"I am listening to you," the young man said, coolly.
"Of the two men now standing before you, one is your fellow countryman."
"Ah!" the Count muttered.
"That countryman is myself."
The young man bowed coldly.
"I suspected it," he said, "and it is a further reason to heighten my suspicions."
Natah Otann made a gesture.
"Let him speak," White Buffalo said, holding him back.
"What I have to say will not be long, sir: it is my opinion that the man who consents to exchange the blessings of European civilization for a precarious life on the prairie; who breaks all the ties of family and friendship which attached him to his country, in order to adopt an Indian life—in my opinion that man must have many disgraceful actions to reproach himself with, and his remorse forces him to offer society expiation for them."
The old man's brow contracted, and a livid pallor covered his face.
"You are very young, sir," he said, "to have the right to bring such accusations against an old man whose actions, life, and even name are unknown to you."
"That is true, sir," the Count answered, nobly. "Pardon any insult my words may have conveyed."
"Why should I be angry with you?" he continued, in a sad voice; "a child born yesterday, whose eyes opened amid songs and fêtes, whose life, which counts but a few days, has been spent gently and calmly in the peace and prosperity of that beloved France which I weep for every day."
"Who are you, sir?" he asked.
"Who I am?" the old man said, bitterly. "I am one of those crushed Titans who sat in the Convention of 1793."
The Count fell back a pace, letting fall the hand he had taken.
"Oh!" he said.
The exile looked at him searchingly.
"Enough of this," he said, raising his head and assuming a firm and resolute tone; "you are in our hands, sir, any resistance will be useless; so listen to our propositions."
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
"You throw off the mask," he said, "and I prefer that; but allow me one remark before listening to you."
"What is it?"
"I am of noble birth, as you are aware, and hence we are old enemies; on whatever ground we may meet, we can only stand face to face, never side by side."
"They are ever the same," the other muttered; "this haughty race may be broken, but not bent."
The Count bowed, and folded his arms on his breast.
"I am waiting," he said.
"Time presses," the exile continued; "any discussion between us would be superfluous, as we cannot agree."
"At least, that is clear," the Count remarked, with a smile; "now for the rest."
"It is this: in two days, all the Indian nations will rise as one man to crush the American tyranny."
"What do I care for that? Have I come so far to dabble in politics?"
The exile repressed a movement of anger.
"Unfortunately, your will is not free; you are here to obey our conditions, and not to impose your own: you must accept or die."
"Oh, oh, always your old means, as it seems, but I will be patient: come, what is it you expect from me?"
"We demand," he went on, laying a stress on every word, "that you should take the command of all the warriors, and direct the expedition in person."
"Why I, rather than anyone else?"
"Because you alone can play the part we give you."
"Nonsense—you are mad."
"You must be so, if, since your stay among the Indians, you have not seen that you would have been killed long ago, had we not been careful to spread reports about you, which gained you general respect, in spite of your rashness and blind confidence in yourself."
"Eh, then, this has been prepared a long time?"
"For centuries."
"Hang it!" the Count went on, still sarcastically, "what have I to do in all this?"
"Oh, sir, not much," the White Buffalo answered, with a sneer; "and anyone else would have suited us just as well; unfortunately for you, you have an extraordinary likeness to the man who can alone march at our head; and as this man died long ago, it is not probable that he will come from his grave expressly to guide us to battle; hence you must take his place."
"Very well; and would there be any indiscretion in asking you the name of the man to whom I bear so wonderful a likeness?"
"Not the slightest," the old man replied, coldly; "the more so, because you have doubtlessly already heard his name; it is Motecuhzoma."
The Count burst into a laugh.
"Come!" he said, "it is a capital joke; but I find it a little too long. Now, a word in my turn."
"Speak."
"Whatever you may do, whatever means you may employ, I will never consent to serve you in any way. Now, as I am your guest, placed under the guarantee of your honour, I request you to let me pass."
"That resolution is decided."
"Yes."
"You will not change it."
"Whatever happens."
"We shall see that," the old man remarked, coldly.
The Count looked at him contemptuously.
"Make way there," he said, resolutely.
The two Chiefs shrugged their shoulders.
"We are savages," Natah Otann said, gibingly.
"Make way!" the Count repeated, as he cocked his rifle.
Natah Otann whistled; in an instant, some fifteen Indians rushed from the wood, and fell on the white men, who, however, though surprised, endured the shock bravely. Standing instinctively back to back, with shoulder supported against shoulder, they suddenly formed a tremendous triangle, before which the Redskins were constrained to halt.
"Oh, oh," Bright-eye said, "I fancy we are going to have some fun."
"Yes," Ivon muttered, crossing himself piously; "but we shall be killed."
"Probably," the Canadian said.
"Fall back!" the Count ordered.
The three men then began to retire slowly toward the wood, the only shelter that offered, without separating, and still pointing their rifles at the Indians. The Redskins are brave, even rash; that question cannot be disguised or doubted; but with them courage is calculated; they never fight save to gain an object, and are not fond of risking their lives unprofitably. They hesitated.
"I fancy we did well to reload our arms," the Count said, ironically, but with perfect calmness.
"By Jove!" Bright-eye said, with a grin.
"No matter, I am very frightened," Ivon groaned his eyes sparkling and his lips quivering.
"Eha, sons of blood!" Natah Otann shouted, as he cocked his gun. "Do three Palefaces frighten you? Forward! Forward!"
The Indians uttered their war yell, and rushed on the hunters. The other Indians, warned of what was happening by the shouts of their comrades, ran up hurriedly to take part in the fight.
We must leave our three valiant champions for a few moments in their present critical position, to speak of one of the important persons of this story, whom we have neglected too long.
Immediately after the departure of the Indians, John Black, with that American activity equalled in no other country, set to work, beginning his clearing. The peril he had incurred, and which he had only escaped by a miracle incomprehensible to him, had caused him to make very earnest reflections. He understood that in the isolated spot where he was, he could not expect assistance from anyone; that he must alone confront the danger that would doubtlessly menace him; and that, consequently, he must, before all else, think about defending the settlement against acoup de main, Major Melville had heard, through hisengagésand trappers, of the colonist; but the latter was perfectly ignorant that he was only ten miles from Fort Mackenzie. His resolution once formed, John Black carried it out immediately.
To those people who have not seen American clearings, the processes employed by the squatters, and the skill with which they cut down the largest trees in a few moments, would appear as prodigies. Black considered that he had not a moment to lose, and, aided by his son and servants, set to work. The temporary camp, as we have seen, was situated on a rather high mound, which commanded the plain for a long distance. It was here that the colonist determined to build his house. He began by planting all round the platform of the hill a row of enormous stakes, twelve feet high, and fastened together by large bolts. This first enceinte finished, he dug behind it a trench about eight feet wide and fifteen deep, throwing up the earth on the edge, so as to form a second line of defence. Then, in the interior of this improvised fortress, which, if defended by a resolute garrison, was impregnable, unless cannon were brought up to form a breach—for the abrupt slope of the hill rendered any assault impossible—he laid the foundation of his family's future abode. The temporary arrangements he had made allowed him to continue his further labours less hastily; through his prodigious activity, he could defy the attacks of all the prowlers on the prairie.
His wife and daughter had actively helped him, for they understood, better than the rest of the family, the utility of these defensive works. The poor ladies, little used to the rude toil they had been engaged in, needed rest. Black had not spared himself more than the rest. He understood the justice of his wife and daughter's entreaties, and as he had nothing to fear for the present, he generously granted a whole day's rest to the little colony.
The events that marked the squatter's arrival in the province had left a profound impression on the hearts of Mrs. Black and her daughter. Diana, especially, had maintained a recollection of the Count, which time, far from weakening, rendered only the more vivid. The Count's chivalrous character, the noble way in which he had acted, and—let us speak the truth—his physical qualities, all combined to render him dear to the young girl, whose life had hitherto passed away calmly, nothing happening to cast a cloud over her heart. Many times since the young man's departure she stopped in her work, raised her head, looked anxiously around her, and then resumed her toil, while stifling a sigh.
Mothers are quick-sighted, especially those who, like Mrs. Black, really love their daughters. What her husband and son did not suspect, then, she guessed merely by looking for a few minutes at the poor girl's pale face, her eyes surrounded by a dark ring, her pensive look, and inattention.
Diana was in love.
Mrs. Black looked around her. No one could be the object of that love. So far back as she could remember, she called to mind no one her daughter had appeared to distinguish before their departure from the clearing, where she had passed her youth. Besides, when the little party set out in search of a fresh home, Diana seemed joyful, she prattled gaily as a bird, and appeared to trouble herself about none of those she left behind.
After these reflections, the mother sighed in her turn; for, if she had divined her daughter's love, she had been unable to discover the man who was the object of that love. Mrs. Black resolved to cross-question her daughter as soon as she happened to be alone with her; till then she feigned to be in perfect ignorance. The day of rest granted by John Black to his family would probably offer her the favourable opportunity she awaited so impatiently. Hence she joyfully received the news which her husband gave her in the evening after prayers, which, according to the custom of the family, were said in common before going to bed.
The next morning, at sunrise, according to their daily habit, the two ladies prepared the breakfast, while the servants led the cattle down to the river.
"Wife," the squatter said, at breakfast, "William and I intend, as work is suspended for today, to mount our horses, and go and visit the neighbourhood, which we have not seen yet."
"Do not go too far, my friend, and be well armed; you know that in the desert dangerous meetings are not rare."
"Yes; so be at ease. Although I believe that we have nothing to fear for the present, I will be prudent. Would you not feel inclined to accompany us, as well as Diana, and take a look at your new domain?"
The girl's eyes glistened with joy at this proposition; she opened her lips to reply; but her mother laid her hand on her mouth, and spoke instead of her.
"You must excuse us, my dear," she said, with a certain degree of vivacity, "but women, as you know, have always something to do. Diana and I will put everything in order during your absence, which our busy labours of the last few days have prevented us doing."
"As you please, wife."
"Besides," she continued, with a smile; "as we shall probably remain a long time here—"
"I fancy so," the squatter interrupted.
"Well, I shall not lack opportunity of visiting our domains, as you call them, another day."
"Excellently argued, ma'am, and I am quite of your opinion; William and I will therefore take our ride alone; I would ask you not to feel alarmed if we do not come home till rather late."
"No; but on condition that you return before night."
"Agreed."
They spoke of something else; still, towards the end of the meal, Sam, without suspecting it, brought the conversation back nearly to the same subject.
"I am certain, James," he said to his comrade, "that the young man was not a Canadian, as you fancy, but a Frenchman."
"Who are you talking about?" the squatter asked.
"The gentleman who accompanied the Redskins, and made them give us back our cattle."
"Yes, without counting the other obligations we are under to him, for if I am now the owner of a clearing, it was through him."
"He is a worthy gentleman," Mrs. Black said, with a purpose.
"Yes, yes," Diana murmured, in an indistinct voice.
"He is a Frenchman," Black asserted. "There cannot be a doubt of that: those Canadian scoundrels are incapable of acting in the way he did to us."
Like all the North Americans, Black heartily detested the Canadians; why he did so, he could not have said, but this hatred was innate in his heart.
"Bah!" William said, "what matter his country, he has a fine heart, and is a true gentleman. For my part, father, I know a certain William Black, who is ready to die for him."
"By heaven!" the squatter exclaimed, as he struck the table with his fist, "you would be only doing your duty, and discharging a sacred debt: I would give anything to see him again, and prove to him that I am not ungrateful."
"Well spoken, father," William said joyously; "honest men are too rare in the world for us not to cling to those we know; if we should meet again, I will show him what sort of man I am."
During this rapid interchange of words, Diana said nothing; she listened, with outstretched neck, beaming face, and a smile on her lips, happy to hear a man thus spoken of, whom she unconsciously loved since she first saw him. Mrs. Black thought it prudent to turn the conversation.
"There is another person to whom we owe great obligations; for if Heaven had not sent her at the right moment to our help, we should have been pitilessly massacred by the Indians; have you already forgotten that person?"
"God forbid!" the squatter exclaimed, quickly, "the poor creature did me too great a service for me to forget her."
"But who on earth can she be?" William said.
"I should be much puzzled to say; I believe even that the Indians and trappers, who cross the prairies, could give us no information about her."
"She only appeared and disappeared," James observed.
"Yes, but her passage, so rapid as it was, left deep traces," Mrs. Black said.
"Her mere presence was enough to terrify the Indians. That woman I shall always regard as a good genius, whatever opinion may be expressed about her in my presence."
"We owe it to her that we did not suffer atrocious torture."
"May God bless the worthy creature!" the squatter exclaimed; "if ever she have need of us, she can come in all certainty; I and all I possess are at her disposal."
The meal was over, and they rose from the table. Sam had saddled two horses. John Black and his son took their pistols, bowie knives, and rifles, mounted their horses, and after promising once again not to be late, they cautiously descended the winding path leading into the plain.
Diana and her mother then began putting things to rights, as had been arranged. When Mrs. Black had watched the couple out of sight on the prairie, and assured herself that the two servants were engaged outside in mending some harness, she took her needlework, and requested her daughter to come and sit by her side. Diana obeyed with a certain inward apprehension, for never had her mother behaved to her so mysteriously. For a few minutes the two ladies worked silently opposite each other. At length Mrs. Black stopped her needle, and looked at her daughter; the latter continued her sewing, without appearing to notice this intermission.
"Diana," she asked her, "have you nothing to say to me?"
"I, mother?" the young girl said, raising her head with amazement.
"Yes, you, my child."
"Pardon me, mother," she went on, with a certain tremor in her voice, "but I do not understand you."
Mrs. Black sighed.
"Yes," she murmured, "and so it ever must be; a moment arrives when young girls have unconsciously a secret from their mothers."
The poor lady wiped away a tear; Diana rose quickly, and throwing her arms tenderly round her mother—
"A secret? I, a secret from you, mother? Oh, how could you suppose such a thing?"
"Child!" Mrs. Black replied, with a smile of ineffable kindness, "a mother's eye cannot be deceived;" and putting her finger on her daughter's palpitating heart, she said, "your secret is there."
Diana blushed, and drew back, confused.
"Alas!" the good lady continued, "I do not address reproaches to you, poor dear and well-beloved child. You unconsciously submit to the laws of nature; I too, at your age, was as you are at this moment, and when my mother asked my secret, like you, I replied that I had none, for I was myself ignorant of that secret."
The girl hid her face, all bathed in tears, in her mother's breast. The latter gently moved the flowing locks of light hair which covered her daughter's brow, and giving her a kiss, said, with that accent which mothers alone possess—
"Come, my dear Diana, dry your tears, do not trouble yourself so; only tell me your feelings during the last few days."
"Alas! my kind mother," the girl replied, smiling through her tears, "I understand nothing myself, and suffer without knowing why; I am restless, languid; everything disgusts and wearies me, and yet I fancy there has been no change in my life."
"You are mistaken, child," Mrs. Black answered, gravely, "your heart has spoken without your knowledge; thus, instead of the careless, laughing girl you were, you have become a woman, you have thought, your forehead has turned pale, and you suffer."
"Alas!" Diana murmured.
"Come, how long have you been so sad?"
"I know not, mother."
"Think again."
"I fancy it is—."
Mrs. Black, understanding her daughter's hesitation, finished the sentence for her.
"Since the day after our arrival here, is it not?"
Diana raised to her mother her large blue eyes, in which profound amazement could be read.
"It is true," she murmured.
"Your sorrow began at the moment when the strangers, who so nobly aided us, took their leave?"
"Yes," the girl said, in a low voice, with downcast eyes and blushing forehead.
Mrs. Black continued smilingly her interesting interrogatory.
"On seeing them depart, your heart was contracted, your cheeks turned pale, you shuddered involuntarily, and, if I had not held you—I who watched you carefully, poor darling—you would have fallen. Is not all this true?"
"It is true, mother," the girl said, with a more assured voice.
"Good; and the man from whom you regret being separated—he who causes your present sorrow and suffering, is—?"
"Mother!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into her arms, and hiding her shamed face in her bosom.
"It is—?" she continued.
"Edward!" the girl said, in an inarticulate voice, and melting into tears.
Mrs. Black directed on her daughter a glance of supreme pity, embraced her ardently several times, and said, in a soft voice,—
"You see that you had a secret, my child, since you love him."
"Alas!" she murmured, naively, "I do not know it, mother."
The good lady nodded her head with satisfaction, led her daughter back to her chair, and herself sitting down, said to her,—
"And now that we have had a thorough explanation, and there is no longer a secret between us, suppose we have a little talk, Diana."
"I am quite willing, mother."
"Listen to me, then; my age and experience, leaving out of sight the position in which I stand to you, authorize me in giving you advice. Will you hear it?"
"Oh, mother! you know I respect and love you."
"I know it, dear child; I know too, as I have never left you since your birth, and have incessantly watched over you, how generous your mind is, how noble your heart, and how capable of self-devotion. I must cause you great pain, poor girl; but it is better to attend to the green wound, than allow time to render the evil incurable."
"Alas!"
"This raging love, which has unconsciously entered your heart, cannot be very great; it is rather the awakening of the mind to those gentle feelings and noble instincts, which embellish existence and characterize the woman, than a passion; your love is only in reality a momentary exaltation of the brain's feverish imagination; like all young girls, you aspire to the unknown, you seek an ideal, the reality of which does not exist for you; but you do not love. Nay, more, you cannot love; the feeling you experience at the moment is entirely in the head, and the heart goes for nothing."
"Mother!" the young girl interrupted.
"Dear Diana," she continued, taking her hand, and pressing it, "let me make you suffer a little now, to spare you at a later date the horrible pangs which would produce the despair of your whole existence. The man you fancy you love you will probably never see again; he is ignorant of your attachment, and does not share it. I am speaking cold and implacable reason; it is logical, and spares us much grief, while passion is never so, and always produces pain; but supposing for a moment that this young man loved you, you could never be his."
"But if he love me, mother," she said, timidly.
"Poor babe!" the mother continued, with an accent of sublime pity. "Do you know even whether he be free? Who has told you that he is not married? But I will allow it for a moment: this young man is noble; he belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in Europe; his fortune is immense. Do you believe that he will ever consent to abandon all the social advantages his position guarantees him?—that he will bow his family pride to give his hand to the daughter of a poor American squatter?"
"It is true," she murmured, letting her head fall in her hands.
"And even if he did so, though it is impossible, would you consent to follow him, and leave in the desert a father and mother, who have only you, and who would die of despair ere your departure? Come, Diana, answer, would you consent?"
"Oh, never, never, mother!" she exclaimed, madly "Oh, I love you most of all!"
"Good, my darling; that is how I wished to see you. I am happy that my words have found the road to your heart. This man is kind; he has done us immense service; we owe him gratitude, but nothing more."
"Yes, yes, mother," she murmured, with a sob.
"You must only see in him a friend, a brother," she continued, firmly.
"I will try, mother."
"You promise it me?"
The girl hesitated for a moment. Suddenly she raised her head, and said, bravely,—
"I thank you, mother. I swear to you not to forget him, that would be impossible, but so thoroughly to conceal my love, that, with the exception of yourself, no one shall suspect it."
"Come to my arms, my child; you understand your duty; you are noble and good."
At this moment James entered.
"Mistress," he said, "the master is coming back, but there are several persons with him."
"Wipe your eyes, and follow me, dear; let us go and see what has happened."
And, stooping down to her daughter's ear, she whispered,—
"When we are alone, we will speak of him."
"Yes, mother," Diana said, almost joyfully, "Oh, how good you are, and how I love you."
They went out, and looked in the direction of the plain. At a considerable distance from the fort, they noticed a party of four or five persons, at the head of whom were John Black and his son William.
"What is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Black said, anxiously.
"We shall soon know, mother; calm yourself; they seem to be riding too gently for us to feel any alarm."
The Count and his two companions, as we have seen, bravely awaited the attack of the Indians; it was terrible. For an instant there was a horrible mêlée hand to hand; then the Indians fell back to draw breath, and begin again. Ten corpses lay at the feet of the three men, who were motionless and firm as a block of granite.
"By heavens!" the Count said, as he wiped away, with the back of his hand, the perspiration mingled with blood that stood in large beads on his forehead, "it is a glorious fight."
"Yes," Bright-eye replied, carelessly; "but it is mortal."
"What matter, if we die like men?"
"Hum! I am not of that opinion. As long as there is a chance, we must seize it."
"But none is left us!"
"Perhaps there is; but let me act."
"I ask no better. Still I confess to you that I find this fight glorious."
"It is really very agreeable; but it would be much more so, if we lived to recount it."
"On my word, that is true. I did not think of that."
"Yes, but I did."
The Canadian stooped down to Ivon, and whispered some words in his ear.
"Yes," the Breton replied, "provided I am not afraid."
"Bravo!" the hunter said, with a smile; "you will do what you can. That is agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Look out, comrades," the Count shouted; "here are the enemy!"
In truth, the Indians were ready to renew the attack. Natah Otann and White Buffalo were resolved on taking the Count alive, and without a wound; they had consequently given their warriors orders not to employ their firearms, content themselves with parrying the blows dealt them, but take him at every risk. During the few moments' respite which the Indians had allowed the white men, the other Indians had run up to take part in the fight; so that the hunters, surrounded on all sides, had to make head against at least forty Redskins. It would have been madness or blind temerity to attempt opposing such a mass of enemies; and yet the white men did not appear to dream of asking quarter. At the moment Natah Otann was going to give the signal for attack, White Buffalo, who had hitherto stood aloof, gloomy and thoughtful, interposed,—
"A moment!" he said.
"For what good?" the Chief remarked.
"Let me make the attempt. Perhaps they will recognize that a struggle is impossible, and consent to accept our propositions."
"I doubt it," Natah Otann muttered, shaking his head; "they appear very resolute."
"Let me try it. You know how necessary it is for the success of our plans that we should seize this man?"
"Unfortunately; if we do not take care, he will be killed."
"That is what I wish to avoid."
"Try it then; but I am convinced you will fail."
"Who knows? I can try, at any rate."
White Buffalo walked a few paces in advance, and was then about six yards from the Count.
"What do you want?" the young man said. "If I did not involuntarily know that you are a Frenchman, I should have long ago put a bullet into your chest."
"Fire!—what stops you?" the exile replied, in a sad voice. "Do you believe that I fear death?"
"Enough talking. Retire! or I will fire."
And he levelled his rifle at him.
"I wish to say one word to you."
"Speak quickly, and be off."
"I offer you and your comrades your lives, if you will surrender."
The Count burst into a laugh.
"Nonsense," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders; "do you take us for fools? We were the guests of your companions, and they have impudently violated the law of nations."
"That is your last word, then?"
"The last, by Jove! You must have lived a long time among the Indians to have forgotten that Frenchmen would sooner die than be cowards."
"Your blood be on your own heads, then."
"So be it, odious renegade, who fight with savages against your brothers."
This insult struck the old man to the heart; he bent a fearful glance on the young man, turned pale as death and withdrew, tottering like a drunkard, and muttering, in a low voice,—
"Oh, these nobles!"
"Well?" Natah Otann asked him.
"He refuses," he answered quickly.
"I was sure of it. Now it is our turn."
Raising to his lips his war whistle, he produced a shrill and lengthened sound, to which the Indians responded with a frightful yell, and rushed like a legion of demons on the three men, who received them without yielding an inch. The mêlée recommenced in all its fury; the three men clubbed their rifles, and dealt crushing blows around. Ivon performed prodigies of valour, rising and sinking his rifle with the regularity of a pendulum, smashing a man at every blow, and muttering,—
"Ouf, there's another: holy Virgin, I feel my terror coming upon me."
Still the circle drew closer round the three men; others took the places of the Indians who fell, and were in their turn pushed onward by those behind. The hunters were weary of striking. Their arms did not fall with the same vigour; their blows failed in regularity; the blood rose to their heads; their eyes were injected with blood, and they had a dizziness in their ears.
"We are lost!" the Count muttered.
"Courage!" Bright-eye yelled, as he smashed in the skull of an Indian.
"It is not courage that fails me, but strength," the young man answered, in a fainting voice.
"Forward, forward!" Natah Otann repeated, bounding like a demon round the three men.
"Now, Ivon, now!" Bright-eye cried out.
"Good bye," the Breton replied.
And turning his terrible weapon round his head, he rushed into the densest throng of the Indians.
"Follow me, Count," Bright-eye went on.
"Come on then," the latter shouted.
The two men executed on the opposite side the manoeuvre attempted by the Breton. Ivon, the coward you know, seemed to have at the moment entirely forgotten his fear of being speared; he appeared, like Briareus, to have a hundred arms to level the numerous assailants who incessantly rose before him, and cleft his way through the throng. Fortunately for the Breton, most of the Indians had rushed in pursuit of game more valuable to them, that is, the Count and the Canadian, who had redoubled their efforts, though already so prodigious.
While still fighting, Ivon had reached the skirt of the wood, about three or four yards from the spot where the horses were tied. This was probably what the Breton wished for. So soon as he found himself in a straight line with the horses, instead of pushing forward as he had hitherto done, he began to fall back step to step, so as to arrive close to them. Still, he always fought with that cold resolution which distinguishes the Bretons, and renders them such terrible foemen.
Suddenly, when he found himself near enough to the horses, Ivon gave a parting blow to the nearest Indian, sent him staggering backwards with a dashed-in skull, took a panther leap, and reached the Count's horse. In a second he had mounted, dug his spurs into the flanks of the noble animal, and galloped off, after knocking down two Indians who tried to stop him.
"Hurrah! saved! saved!" he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he disappeared in the forest, where the Blackfeet did not dare to follow him.
The Redskins stood stupefied by such a prodigious flight. The cry uttered by Ivon was doubtlessly a signal agreed on between him and Bright-eye; for, so soon as he heard it, the hunter, by a hurried movement, seized the Count's arm as he was in the act of striking.
"What on earth are you about?" the latter said, turning to him angrily.
"I am saving you," the hunter replied, coolly; "throw down your weapon!—We surrender," he then exclaimed.
"You will explain your conduct, I presume?" the Count continued.
"Be of good cheer; you will approve it."
"Be it so."
And he threw the gun down. The Indians, whom the hunters' heroic defence kept at a distance, rushed upon them so soon as they saw they were disarmed, Natah Otann and White Buffalo hurried up; the two men already were thrown down on the sand, when the Chief interposed.
"Sir," he said, "you are my prisoner; and you too, Bright-eye."
The young man shrugged his shoulders with contempt.
"Reckon up what your victory has already cost you," the hunter replied, with a sardonic smile, and pointing to the numerous corpses that lay on the plain. Natah Otann, however, pretended not to hear this remark.
"If you will give me your word of honour not to escape, gentlemen," White Buffalo said, "you will be unloosed, and your weapons restored to you."
"Is this another trap you are laying for us?" the Count asked, haughtily.
"Bah!" Bright-eye said, with a significant glance at his comrade, "we will give our word for four-and-twenty hours; after that, we will see."
"You hear, gentlemen," the young man said; "this hunter and myself pledge our words for four-and-twenty hours. Does that suit you? Of course, at the end of that time, we are free to recall it."
"Or to pledge it again," the Canadian added, with a smile; "what do we risk by doing so?"
The two Chiefs exchanged a few whispered words.
"We accept," Natah Otann at length said.
At a sign from him, the prisoners' bonds were cut, and they rose.
"Hum!" Bright-eye said, stretching himself with delight, "it does one good to have the use of his limbs. Bah! I knew they would not kill me this time, either."
"Here are your horses and arms, gentlemen," the Chief said.
"Permit me," the Count remarked coolly, drawing his watch from his pocket, "it is now half-after seven; you have our parole till the same time tomorrow evening."
"Very good," White Buffalo said, with a bow.
"And now, where are you going to take us, if you please?" the hunter asked, with a crafty look.
"To the village!"
"Thank you."
The two men jumped into their saddles, and followed the Indians, who only waited for them to start. Ten minutes later, this place, on which so many events had occurred during the day, became again calm and silent.
We will leave the Count and the hunter returning to the village under good escort, to follow the track of Ivon.
After leaving the battlefield, the latter rode straight ahead, not caring to lose precious time in looking for a path; for the moment all were good, provided that they bore him from the enemies he had so providentially escaped. Still, after galloping for about an hour across the wood, reassured by the perfect silence that prevailed around him, he gradually checked his horse's speed. It was high time for this idea to occur to him, as the poor horse, so harshly treated, was beginning to break down. The Breton profited by this slight truce to reload his weapons.
"I am not brave," he said in a low voice, "but by Jove! as my poor master says, the first scamp that attempts to bar my way, I will blow out his brains, so surely as my name is Ivon."
And the worthy man would have done as he said, we feel assured. After advancing a few hundred yards, Ivon looked around, stopped his horse, and dismounted.
"What is the use of going any farther?" he said, resuming his soliloquy; "my horse wants rest, and I shall not be the worse for a halt. As well here as elsewhere."
On this, he took off his horse's saddle, carried his master's portmanteau to the foot of a tree, and began lighting a fire.
"How quickly night comes on in this confounded country," he muttered; "it is hardly eight o'clock, and it is as black as in an oven."
While discoursing thus all alone, he had collected a considerable quantity of dry wood; he returned to the spot he had selected for camping, piled up the wood, struck a light, knelt, and began blowing with all the strength of his lungs to make it catch. In a moment he raised his head to breathe; but uttered a yell of terror, and almost fell backwards. He had seen, about three paces from the fire, two persons silently watching him. The first moment of surprise past, the Breton bounded on his feet, and cocked his pistols.
"Confuse you," he shouted, "you gave me a pretty fright; but no matter, we will see."
"My brother may be at rest," a soft voice replied, in bad English, "we do not wish to do him any harm."
As a Breton, Ivon spoke nearly as good English as he did French. On hearing these words, he bent forward, and looked. "Oh!" he said, "the Indian girl."
"Yes, it is I," Prairie-Flower answered, as she stepped forward.
Her companion followed her, and Ivon recognized Red Wolf.
"You are welcome," he remarked, "to my poor encampment."
"Thanks," she answered.
"How is it that you are here?"
"And you?" she said, answering one question by another.
"Oh, I!" he said, shaking his head, "that is a sad story."
"What does my brother mean?" Red Wolf asked.
"Good, good," the Breton said, turning his head; "that is my business, and not yours. First, tell me what brings you to me, and I will then see if I may confide to you what has happened to my master and myself."
"My brother is prudent," Prairie-Flower answered, "he is right: prudence is good on the prairie."
"Hum! I wish my master had heard you make that remark, perhaps he would not be where he now is."
Prairie-Flower gave a start of terror.
"Wah! has any misfortune happened to him?" she said, in an agonized voice.
Ivon looked at her.
"You appear to take an interest in him?"
"He is brave," she exclaimed, passionately; "this morning he killed the cougars that threatened Prairie-Flower; she has a heart—she will remember."
"That is true; quite true, young lady," he said; "he saved your life. Tell me first, though, how it is we should have met in this forest."
"Listen, then, as you insist."
The Breton bowed. To all his other qualities Ivon added that of being as obstinate as an Andalusian mule. Once the worthy man had taken a theory into his head, nothing could turn him from it. We must grant, however, that he had at present excellent reason to distrust the Indians.
Prairie-Flower continued:—
"After Glass-eye had so bravely killed the cougars," she said, with considerable emotion, "the great Chief, Natah Otann, was angry with Prairie-Flower, and ordered her to return to the village with Red Wolf."
"I know all that," Ivon interrupted, "I was there; and that is why it seems to me so extraordinary to meet you here when you should have been on the road to the village."
The Indian girl gave one of those little pouts peculiar to her, and which rendered her so seductive.
"The pale man is as curious as an old squaw," she said, with an accent of ill-humour; "why does he wish to know Prairie-Flower's secret? She has in her heart a little bird which sings pleasant songs to her, and attracts her in the footsteps of the Paleface who saved her."
"Ah!" said the Breton, partly catching the girl's meaning; "that is different."
"Instead of returning to the village," Red Wolf interposed, "Prairie-Flower wished to return to the side of Glass-eye."
The Breton reflected for a long time; the two Indians watched him silently, patiently waiting till he thought proper to explain himself. Presently, he raised his head, and, fixing his cunning grey eye on the girl, he asked her distinctly,—
"You love him, then?"
"Yes," she answered, looking down on the ground.
"Very good. Now listen attentively to what I am about to tell you; it will interest you prodigiously, or I am greatly mistaken."
The two hearers bent down toward him, and listened attentively. Ivon then related most copiously his master's conversation with the two Chiefs; the dispute that arose between them; the combat that ensued from it, and the way in which he had escaped.
"If I did run away," he said, in conclusion, "heaven is my witness that it was not for the purpose of saving my life. Though I am a desperate coward, I would never hesitate to sacrifice my life for him; but Bright-eye advised me to act in this way, so that I may try and find assistance for them both."
"Good," the girl said, quickly; "the Paleface is brave. What does he intend to do?"
"I mean to save my master, by Jove!" the Breton said, resolutely. "The only thing is, that I do not know how to set about it."
"Prairie-Flower knows. She will help the Paleface."
"Is what you promise really true, young girl?"
The Indian maid smiled.
"The Paleface will follow Prairie-Flower and Red Wolf," she said; "they will lead him to a spot where he will find friends."
"Good; and when will you do it, my good girl?" he asked, his heart palpitating with joy.
"So soon as the Paleface is ready to start."
"At once, then, at once!" the Breton exclaimed, hurriedly rising, and hurrying to his horse.
Prairie-Flower and Red Wolf had concealed their steeds in the centre of a clump of trees. Ten minutes later, and Ivon and his guides quitted the clearing where they had met; it was about midnight when they started.
"My poor master!" the Breton muttered. "Shall I be permitted to save him?"
The night was black, gloomy, and storm-laden. The wind howled with a mournful murmur through the branches; at each gust the trees shook their damp crowns, and sent down showers, which pattered on the shrubs. The sky was of a leaden hue; so great was the silence in the desert, that the fall of a withered leaf, or the rustling of a branch touched in its passage by some invisible animal, could be distinctly heard.
Ivon and his guides advanced cautiously through the forest, seeking their road in the darkness, half lying on their horses, so as to avoid the branches that lashed their faces at every moment. Owing to the endless turns they were compelled to take, nearly two hours elapsed ere they left the forest. At length they debouched on the plain, and found themselves almost simultaneously on the banks of the Missouri. The river, swollen by rain and snow, rolled along its yellowish waters noisily. The fugitives followed the bank in a south-western direction. Now that they had struck the river, all uncertainty had ceased for them; their road was so distinctly traced that they had no fear of losing it.
On arriving at a spot where a point of sand jutted out for several yards into the bed of the river, and formed a species of cape, from the end of which objects could be seen for some distance, owing to the transparency of the water, Red Wolf made a sign to his companions to halt, and himself dismounted. Prairie-Flower and Ivon imitated him. Ivon was not sorry to take a few moments' rest, and, above all, make some inquiries before proceeding further. At the first blush, carried away by an unreflecting movement of the heart, which impelled him to save his master by any means that offered, he had not hesitated to follow his two strange guides; but, with reflection, distrust had returned still more powerfully, and the Breton was unwilling to go further with the persons he had met, until he possessed undoubted proofs of their honesty.
So soon as he had dismounted then, and taken off his horse's bridle, so that it should crop the tender shoots, Ivon walked up boldly to the Redskin, and struck him on the shoulder. The Indian, whose eyes were eagerly fixed on the rider, turned to him.
"What does the Paleface want?" he asked him.
"To talk a little with you, Chief."
"The moment is not good for talking," the Indian answered, sententiously; "the Palefaces are like the mockingbird; their tongues must be ever in motion; let my brother wait."
Ivon did not understand the epigram.
"No," he said, "we must talk at once."
The Indian suppressed an impatient gesture.
"The Red Wolf's ears are open," he said; "the Chattering Jaycan explain himself."
The Redskins, finding some difficulty in pronouncing the names of people with whom the accidents of the chase or of trade bring them into relation, are accustomed to substitute for these names others, derived from the character or physical aspect of the individual they wish to designate. Ivon was called by the Blackfoot Indians the Chattering Jay, a name whose justice we will refrain from discussing. The Breton did not seem annoyed by what Red Wolf said to him; absorbed by the thought that troubled him, every other consideration was a matter of indifference to him.
"You promised me to save Glass-eye," he said.
"Yes," the Chief answered, laconically.
"I accepted your propositions without discussion; for three hours I have followed you without saying anything; but, before going further, I should not be sorry to know the means you intend to employ to take him out of the hands of the enemy."
"Is my brother deaf?" the Indian asked.
"I do not think so," Ivon answered, rather wounded by the question.
"Then let him listen."
"I am doing so."
"My brother hears nothing?"
"Not the least, I am free to confess."
Red Wolf shrugged his shoulders.
"The Palefaces are foxes without tails," he said, with disdain; "weaker than children in the desert. Let my brother look," he added, pointing to the river.
Ivon followed the direction indicated, winking, and placing his hands over his eyes, to concentrate the visual rays.
"Well," the Indian asked, after a moment, "has my brother seen?"
"Nothing at all," the Breton said, violently. "May the evil one twist my neck, if it is possible for me to distinguish anything."
"Then my brother will wait a few minutes," the Indian said, perfectly calm; "he will then see and hear."
"Hum!" the Breton went on, but slightly satisfied with this explanation. "What shall I see and hear?"
"My brother will know."
Ivon would have insisted, but the Chief took him by the arm, pushed him back, and hid with him behind a clump of trees, where Prairie-Flower was already ensconced.
"Silence!" the Redskin muttered, in such an imperative tone that the Breton, convinced of the gravity of the situation, deferred to a more favourable moment the string of questions he proposed asking the Chief.
A few minutes elapsed. Redskin and Prairie-Flower, with their bodies bent forward, and carefully parting the leaves, looked eagerly in the direction of the river, while holding their breath. Ivon, bothered in spite of himself by this sort of conduct, imitated their example. A sound soon struck on his ears, but so slight and weak, that at first he fancied himself mistaken. Still the noise grew gradually louder, resembling that of paddles cautiously dipped in the water; next, a black dot, at first nearly imperceptible, but which grew larger by degrees, appeared on the river.
There was soon no doubt in the Breton's mind. The black dot was a canoe. On arriving within a certain distance, the sound could be no longer heard, and the canoe remained motionless about halfway between the two banks. At this moment the cry of the jay broke the silence, repeated thrice, with such perfection, that Ivon instinctively raised his head to the upper branches of the tree that sheltered them. Upon this signal, the canoe began drawing nearer the cape, where it soon ran ashore; but upon landing, the person in it raised the paddle twice in the air. The cry of the jay was heard again, thrice repeated.
Upon this, the rower, perfectly reassured, as it seemed, leaped on the sand, drew the canoe half out of the water, and walked boldly in the direction of the clump of trees that served Ivon and his comrades as an observatory. The latter, deeming it useless to wait longer, quitted their shelter, and walked toward the newcomer, after recommending the Breton not to show himself without their authority. This order he obeyed; but, with that prudence which distinguished him, he cocked his pistols, took one in each hand, and, reassured by this precaution, waited what was about to happen.
The new actor who had entered on the scene, and in whom the reader will have recognised Mrs. Margaret, had left Major Melville only about an hour previously, after having that conversation we have repeated. Although she did not expect to meet Prairie-Flower at this spot, she did not appear at all astonished at seeing her, and gave her a friendly nod, to which the girl responded with a smile.
"What is there new?" she asked the Indian.
"Much," he replied.
"Speak."
The Red Wolf thereupon told her all that had happened during the chase; in what way he had learned it, and how Ivon had escaped in order to seek help for his master. Margaret listened to the long story without letting a sign of emotion to be seen on her wrinkled, grief-worn face. When Red Wolf had ceased speaking, she reflected for a few moments; then raising her head, asked—
"Where is the Paleface?"
"Here," the Indian answered, pointing to the clump of trees.
"Let him come."
The Chief turned to fetch him, but the Breton, who had heard the last word spoken in English, and judged that it was intended for him, left his hiding place, after returning the pistols to his belt, and joined the party. At this moment the first gleam of day began to appear, the darkness was rapidly dissipated, and a reddish hue, which formed on the extreme limit of the horizon, indicated that the sun would speedily rise. The She-wolf fixed on the Breton her cunning eye, as if desirous to read the depths of his heart. Ivon had nothing to reproach himself with, and hence he bravely withstood the glance. The She-wolf, satisfied with the dumb interrogatory to which she had subjected the Breton, softened down the harsh expression of her face, and at length addressed him in a voice she attempted to render conciliatory.
"Listen attentively," she said to him.
"I am listening."
"You are devoted to your master?"
"To the death," Ivon answered, firmly.
"Good: then I can reckon on you?"
"Yes."
"You understand, I suppose, that we four cannot save your master?"
"That appears to me difficult, I allow."
"But we wish to revenge ourselves on Natah Otann."
"Very good."
"For a long time our measures have been taken to gain this end at a given moment; that moment has arrived; but we have allies we must warn."
"It is true."
She drew a ring from her finger.
"Take this ring; you know how to use a paddle, I suppose?"
"I am a Breton, that is to say, a sailor."
"Get into the canoe lying there, and without losing a moment, go down the river till you reach a fort."
"Hum! is it far?"
"You will reach it in less than an hour if you are diligent."
"You may be sure of that."
"So soon as you have arrived at the fort, you will ask speech with Major Melville; give him that ring, and tell him all the events of which you have been witness."
"Is that all?"
"No; the Major will give you a detachment of soldiers, with whom you will join us at Black's clearing: can you find your way there again?"
"I think so; especially as it is on the river bank."
"Yes; and you will have to pass it before reaching the fort."
"What shall I do with the canoe?"
"Abandon it."
"When must I start?"