"Faith!" replied Amoahmeh, indignantly. "How dares White Eagle even name the word with the scalps of the friends he swore to fight for to the death hanging at his belt? Amoahmeh at least will never desert those she loves."
"Ay," rejoined the chief, passionately, "her white soul only loves the pale faces; she hates the red skin now, and would fain be happy in the wigwam of the young French warrior."
"Why does the great chief talk like a whining child?" said she, at once regaining her wonted composure. "Amoahmeh does indeed love the French brave, but it is with a sister's affection for one without whom she never could have known the way to happiness here and hereafter. Beyond this he is nought to her. He has a bride already, and it was even for her sake that Amoahmeh gave the hasty, the wicked promise that White Eagle wrung from her as the price of his help. She will yet keep it, yes, even though her heart should break, if he still bids her do so; but what she has not promised she will not do at his bidding. She will not forsake her faith, nor will she rejoice when his warriors come back from the war-path with the spoils of slaughtered Frenchmen. Let White Eagle choose, but let him beware, lest when the Algonquins again see the face of the daughter of War-thunder, and hear her voice, they dig up again the hatchet that they buried at the false counsel of White Eagle, and shout once more the war-cry of 'France and King Louis!'"
"That they shall never do!" exclaimed the Indian fiercely. "Listen! Amoahmeh is free. Let her go her way, but not with the glad heart she hoped for. Manitou has even now given into White Eagle's hand the father and the kinswoman of the young French brave. Amoahmeh might have saved them. Now let her come with me and see them die."
With these words the Indian grasped his tomahawk and sprang up the rugged path. As he reached the top of the bank he turned and waved the weapon aloft, as if to beckon after him the amazed and agitated girl. At the same moment Boulanger started up from the underwood, and with one sweep of his clubbed rifle dashed the deadly hatchet from his hand, then with another stroke he laid the savage at his feet.
To pinion the prostrate Indian's arms with his belt was the work of a minute; another sufficed for Boulanger to tear a couple of withes from a bush, and bind him securely by the ankles to the nearest tree.
"So you have gone over to the English, have you?" said he sternly, as the half-stunned chief began to recover a little. "By rights, I suppose I ought to have shot you down without mercy; but luckily for you I have not quite forgotten our last meeting in the woods."
As the Canadian uttered these words the sharp rattle of half a dozen muskets was heard at a short distance down the river. Then followed shouts, mingled with the terrific war-whoop, at which the dark form of White Eagle seemed to quiver from head to foot. Then all became still again.
Boulanger, with his knee on the Indian's chest, had listened to the sounds with breathless anxiety.
"The red skins have had the worst of that," said he at last, as he arose and grasped his rifle; "but there is something going wrong, or we should have heard more of it. Follow me, Amoahmeh."