“I should guess,” said the settler, his stern features brightening for the first time into a smile of irony, “as how a man who had served a campaign agin the Ingins and another agin the British, might contrive to do without sich a luxury as bread.  You’ll find no bread here I reckon.”

“What, not even a bit of corn bread!  Try, my old cock, and rummage up a crust or two, for hung beef is devilish tight work for the teeth, without a little bread of some sort for a relish.”

“If you’d ha’ used your eyes you’d ha’ seen nothin’ like a corn patch for twenty mile round about this.  Bread never entered this hut since I been here.  I don’t eat it.”

“More’s the pity,” replied Jackson, with infinite drollery; but though you may not like it yourself, your friends may.”

“I have no friends—­I wish to have no friends,” was the sullen reply.

“More’s the pity still,” pursued the Aid-de-Camp, “but what do you live on then, old cock, if you don’t eat bread?”

“Human flesh.  Take that as a relish to your hung beef.”

Scarcely had the strange confession escaped the settler’s lips, when Jackson, active as a deer, was at the farther end of the hut, one hand holding the heavy chair as a shield before him, the other placed upon the butt of one of his pistols.  The settler at the same moment quitted his seat, and stretching his tall and muscular form to its utmost height, burst into a laugh that sounded more like that of some wild beast than a human being.  The involuntary terror produced in his guest was evidently a source of exultation to him, and he seemed gratified to think he had at length discovered the means of making himself looked upon with something like fear.

On entering the hut, Gerald had taken his seat at the opposite corner of the fire, yet in such a manner as to admit of his features being shaded by the projection of the chimney.  The customs of the wilderness moreover rendering it neither offensive, nor even worthy of remark, that he should retain his hat, he had, as in the first instance, drawn it as much over his eyes as he conceived suited to his purpose of concealment, without exciting a suspicion of his design; and, as the alteration in his dress was calculated to deceive into a belief of his being an American, he had been enabled to observe the settler without much fear of recognition in return.  A great change had taken place in the manner of Desborough.  Ferocious he still was, but it was a ferocity, wholly unmixed with the cunning of his former years, that he now exhibited.  He had evidently suffered much, and there was a stamp of thought on the heavy countenance that Gerald had never remarked there before.  There was also this anomaly in the man, that while ten years appeared to have been added to his age—­his strength was increased in the same proportion—­a change that made itself evident by the attitude in which he stood.

“Why now I take it you must be jesting” at length exclaimed the Aid-de-Camp doubtingly, dropping at the same time the chair upon the floor, yet keeping it before him as though not quite safe in the presence of this self-confessed anthropophagos; “you surely don’t mean to say you kill and pickle every unfortunate traveller that comes by here.  If so I most apprehend you in the name of the United States Government.”