“Plenty of dem.  All about mout’ of river.  All about woods and Openings here.  More dan you count.  T’ink of nuttin’ but get your scalp.”

“Ah!  Peter;—­why is it that you red men wish so much to take our lives?—­and why have you destroyed the missionary, a pious Christian, who wished for nothing but your good?”

Peter bent his eyes to the earth, and for more than a minute he made no reply.  He was much moved, however, as was visible in his countenance, which plainly denoted that strong emotions were at work within.

“Blossom, listen to my words,” he, at length, answered.  “They are such as a fader would speak to his da’ghter.  You my da’ghter.  Tell you so, once; and what Injin say once, he say alway.  Poor, and don’t know much, but know how to do as he say he do.  Yes, you my da’ghter!  Bear’s Meat can’t touch you, widout he touch me.  Bourdon your husband; you his squaw.  Husband and squaw go togedder, on same path.  Dat right.  But, Blossom, listen.  Dere is Great Spirit.  Injin believe dat as well as pale-face.  See dat is so.  Dere is Great wicked Spirit, too.  Feel dat, too; can’t help it.  For twenty winter dat Great Wicked Spirit stay close to my side.  He put his hand before one of my ear, and he put his mout’ to tudder.  Keep whisper, whisper, day and night, nebber stop whisper.  Tell me to kill pale-face, wherever I find him.  Bess to kill him.  If didn’t kill pale-face, pale-face kill Injin.  No help for it.  Kill ole man, kill young man; kill squaws, pappoose and all.  Smash eggs and break up ’e nest.  Dat what he whisper, day and night, for twenty winters.  Whisper so much, was force to b’lieve him.  Bad to have too much whisper of same t’ing in ear.  Den I want scalp.  Couldn’t have too much scalp.  Took much scalp.  All pale-face scalp.  Heart grow hard.  Great pleasure was to kill pale-face.  Dat feeling last, Blossom, till I see you.  Feel like fader to you, and don’t want your scalp.  Won’er great deal why I feel so, but do feel so.  Dat my natur’.  Still want all udder pale-face scalp.  Want Bourdon scalp, much as any.”

A slight exclamation from his companion, which could scarcely be called a scream, caused the Indian to cease speaking, when the two looked toward each other, and their eyes met.  Margery, however, saw none of those passing gleams of ferocity which had so often troubled her in the first few weeks of their acquaintance; in their stead, an expression of subdued anxiety, and an earnestness of inquiry that seemed to say how much the chief’s heart yearned to know more on that mighty subject toward which his thoughts had lately been turned.  The mutual glance sufficed to renew the confidence our heroine was very reluctant to relinquish, while it awakened afresh all of Peter’s parental concern in the welfare of the interesting young woman at his side.

“But this feeling has left you, Peter, and you no longer wish Bourdon’s scalp,” said Margery, hastily.  “Now he is my husband, he is your son.”