The swarthy cheek of the Indian reddened, and his eye kindled into fire.  “There is no spy, but a great warrior, in the camp of the Ottawas,” he fiercely replied.  “Though he came from the country that lies beyond the salt lake, he is now a chief of the red skins, and his arm is mighty, and his heart is big.  Would my father know why he has become a chief of the Ottawas?” he pursued with scornful exultation.  “When the strong holds of the Saganaw fell, the tomahawk of the ‘white warrior’ drank more blood than that of a red skin, and his tent is hung around with poles bending under the weight of the scalps he has taken.  When the great chief of the Ottawas dies, the pale face will lead his warriors, and take the first seat in the council.  The Ottawa chief is his friend.”

“If the pale face be the friend of the Ottawa,” pursued the governor, in the hope of obtaining some particular intelligence in regard to this terrible and mysterious being, “why is he not here to sit in council with the chiefs?  Perhaps,” he proceeded tauntingly, as he fancied he perceived a disinclination on the part of the Indian to account for the absence of the warrior, “the pale face is not worthy to take his place among the head men of the council.  His arm may be strong like that of a warrior, but his head may be weak like that of a woman; or, perhaps, he is ashamed to show himself before the pale faces, who have turned him out of their tribe.”

“My father lies!” again unceremoniously retorted the warrior.  “If the friend of the Ottawa is not here, it is because his voice cannot speak.  Does my father recollect the bridge on which he killed his young warrior?  Does he recollect the terrible chase of the pale face by the friend of the Ottawa?  Ugh!” he continued, as his attention was now diverted to another object of interest, “that pale face was swifter than any runner among the red skins, and for his fleetness he deserved to live to be a great hunter in the Canadas; but fear broke his heart,—­fear of the friend of the Ottawa chief.  The red skins saw him fall at the feet of the Saganaw without life, and they saw the young warriors bear him off in their arms.  Is not the Ottawa right?” The Indian paused, threw his eye rapidly along the room, and then, fixing it on the governor, seemed to wait with deep but suppressed interest for his reply.

“Peace to the bones of a brave warrior!” seriously and evasively returned the governor:  “the pale face is no longer in the land of the Canadas, and the young warriors of the Saganaw are sorry for his loss; but what would the Ottawa say of the bridge? and what has the pale warrior, the friend of the Ottawa, to do with it?”

A gleam of satisfaction pervaded the countenance of the Indian, as he eagerly bent his ear to receive the assurance that the fugitive was no more; but when allusion was again made to the strange warrior, his brow became overcast, and he replied with mingled haughtiness and anger,—­