“So help me hebben, Obbicer, he no sail around a gun boat, he dam a Yankee.  He come along a lake like a dam tief in e night and I tell a Massa Geral—­and Massa Geral and me chase him all ober e water—­I not a sleep Massa Courcy;” pursued the old man with pique; “I nebber sleep,—­Massa Geral, nebber sleep.”

“The devil ye don’t” observed De Courcy quaintly, “then the Lord deliver me from gun boat service, I say.”

“Amen” responded Villiers.

“Why,” asked Middlemore, “do Gerald Grantham and old Frumpy here remind one of a certain Irish festival?  Do you give it up?  Because they are awake—­”

The abuse heaped on the pre-eminently vile attempt was unmeasured—­Sambo conceived it a personal affront to himself, and he said, with an air of mortification and wounded dignity, not unmixed with anger!

“Sambo poor black nigger—­obbicer berry white man, but him heart all ob a color.  He no Frumpy—­Massa Geral no like an Irish bestibal.  I wonder he no tick up for a broder, Massa Henry.”  His agitation here was extreme.

“Nonsense Sambo—­don’t you see we are only jesting with you,” said the youth, in the kindest tone, for he perceived that the faithful creature was striving hard to check the rising tear—­“there is not an officer here who does not respect you for your long attachment to my family, and none would willingly give you pain—­neither should you suppose they would say anything offensive in regard to my brother Gerald.”

Pacified by this assurance, which was moreover, corroborated by several of his companions, really annoyed at having pained the old man, Sambo sank once more into respectful silence, still however continuing to occupy the same spot.  During this colloquy the cry had been several times repeated, and as often replied to from the shore; and now a canoe was distinctly visible, urging its way to the beach.  The warriors it contained were a scouting party, six in number—­four paddling the light bark, and one at the helm, while the sixth who appeared, to be the leader, stood upright in the bow, waving from the long pole to which it was attached a human scalp.  A few minutes and the whole had landed, and were encircled on the bank by their eager and inquiring comrades.  Their story was soon told.  They had encountered two Americans at some distance on the opposite shore, who were evidently making the best of their way through the forest to Detroit.  They called upon them to deliver themselves up, but the only answer was an attempt at flight.  The Indians fired, and one fell dead, pierced by many balls.  The other, however, who happened to be considerably in advance, threw all his energy into his muscular frame, and being untouched by the discharge that had slain his companion, succeeded in gaining a dense underwood, through which he finally effected his escape.  The scouts continued their pursuit for upwards of an hour, but finding it fruitless, returned to the place where they had left their canoe, having first secured the scalp and spoils of the fallen man.”