CHAPTER XXX.

A terrible moment.

Melville’s purchase comprised not only the cottage, but its contents, pictures and books included.  This was fortunate, for though Herbert, who was strong, and fond of outdoor sports, such as hunting and fishing, could have contented himself, Melville was easily fatigued, and spent at least half of the day in the cabin.  The books, most of which were new to him, were a great and unfailing resource.

Among the articles which Falkland left behind him were two guns, of which Herbert and Melville made frequent use.  Herbert had a natural taste for hunting, though, at home, having no gun of his own, he had not been able to gratify his taste as much as he desired.  Often after breakfast the two sallied forth, and wandered about in the neighboring woods, gun in hand.  Generally Melville returned first, leaving Herbert, not yet fatigued, to continue the sport.  In this way our hero acquired a skill and precision of aim which enabled him to make a very respectable figure even among old and practiced hunters.

One morning, after Melville had returned home, Herbert was led, by the ardor of the chase, to wander farther than usual.  He was aware of this, but did not fear being lost, having a compass and knowing his bearings.  All at once, as he was making his way along a wooded path, he was startled by hearing voices.  He hurried forward, and the scene upon which he intruded was dramatic enough.

With arms folded, a white man, a hunter, apparently, stood erect, and facing him, at a distance of seventy-five or eighty feet, was an Indian, with gun raised, and leveled at the former.

“Why don’t you shoot, you red rascal!” said the white man.  “You’ve got the drop on me, I allow, and I am in your power.”

The Indian laughed in his guttural way; but though he held the gun poised, he did not shoot.  He was playing with his victim as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it.

“Is white man afraid?” said the Indian, not tauntingly, but with real curiosity, for among Indians it is considered a great triumph if a warrior can inspire fear in his foe, and make him show the white feather.

“Afraid!” retorted the hunter.  “Who should I be afraid of?”

“Of Indian.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you pesky savage,” returned the white man, coolly, ejecting a flood of tobacco juice from his mouth, for though he was a brave man, he had some drawbacks.  “You needn’t think I am afraid of you.”

“Indian shoot!” suggested his enemy, watching the effect of this announcement.

“Well, shoot, then, and be done with it.”

“White man no want to live?”

“Of course I want to live.  Never saw a healthy white man that didn’t.  If I was goin’ to die at all, I wouldn’t like to die by the hands of a red rascal like you.”

“Indian great warrior,” said the dusky denizen of the woods, straightening up, and speaking complacently.