to go out so early in the day.  This was the hour in which he ordinarily slept; but there he was, beyond a question, and apparently looking at the party as it passed.  So cold was his manner, however, and so indifferent did he seem, that no one would have suspected that he knew aught of what was in contemplation.  Having satisfied himself that his friend, the bee-hunter, was not one of those who followed Peter, the Chippewa turned coldly away, and began to examine the flint of his rifle.  The corporal noted this manner, and it gave him additional confidence to proceed; for he could not imagine that any human being would manifest so much indifference, when sinister designs existed.

Peter turned neither to the right hand nor to the left, until he had led the way down upon the little arena of bottom-land already described, and which was found well sprinkled with savages.  A few stood, or sat about in groups, earnestly conversing; but most lay extended at length on the green sward, in the indolent repose that is so grateful to an Indian warrior in his hours of inaction.  The arrival of Peter, however, instantly put a new face on the appearance of matters.  Every man started to his feet, and additions were made to those who were found in the arena by those who came out of the adjacent thickets, until some two or three hundred of the red men were assembled in a circle around the newly-arrived pale-faces.

“There,” said Peter, sternly, fastening his eye with a hostile expression on Bough of the Oak and Ungque, in particular—­“there are your captives.  Do with them as you will.  As for them that have dared to question my faith, let them own that they are liars!”

This was not a very amicable salutation, but savages are accustomed to plain language.  Bough of the Oak appeared a little uneasy, and Ungque’s countenance denoted dissatisfaction; but the last was too skilful an actor to allow many of the secrets of his plotting mind to shine through the windows of his face.  As for the crowd at large, gleams of content passed over the bright red faces, illuminating them with looks of savage joy.  Murmurs of approbation were heard, and Crowsfeather addressed the throng, there, where it stood, encircling the two helpless and as yet but half-alarmed victims of so fell a plot.

“My brothers and my young men can now see,” said this Pottawattamie, “that the tribeless chief has an Injin heart.  His heart is not a pale-face heart—­it is that of a red man.  Some of our chiefs have thought that he had lived too much with the strangers, and that he had forgotten the traditions of our fathers, and was listening to the song of the medicine priest.  Some thought that he believed himself lost, and a Jew, and not an Injin.  This is not so.  Peter knows the path he is on.  He knows that he is a redskin, and he looks on the Yankees as enemies.  The scalps he has taken are so numerous they cannot be counted.  He is ready to take more.  Here are two that he gives to us.  When we have done with these two captives, he will bring us more.  He will continue to bring them, until the pale-faces will be as few as the deer in their own clearings.  Such is the will of the Manitou.”