“Yes, oh! how much I have to thank you for—and you?”
“When the maiden slumbers the warriors keep watch.”
“But you robbed yourself of your garments to protect me. How very, very kind.”
“The red-man is accustomed to the cold breath of the mountains and does not feel it,” said the Indian, turning away.
Hunger is a rare luxury after all. The researches of Ude or Soyer have never found any thing to rival it. No epicurean dainties can match the exquisite pleasure found in its gratification. A night in the mountains, drinking in the very breath of life—the pure, clear, bracing air—a breakfast hot from the glowing embers and a draught of water from the icy brook, are worth more than all the exquisite dishes that ever man invented. It needed no urging, therefore, for the girl to satisfy the cravings of her keen appetite. In after years she might feast from silver and crystal spoons on tables groaning with costly luxuries, but that delicious breakfast from the rude brick plate—the smoking venison, and the ruddy flakes of the spotted trout—the mountain bivouac and the mountain appetite—was never to be equaled in her life again.
When Esther had completed her repast, Osse ’o stood leaning against the entrance of the cave—the rocky pilaster that upheld the giant but irregular rustic arch above, and listened to the story of her captivity. Briefly, at his request, she gave the painful particulars, for it was necessary that he should know them in detail in order to form his future plans. A lightning flash of the eye—a stern compression of lips—a sudden swelling of the thin nostril, and a heaving of the breast, alone betrayed the indignation that was passing within. His figure remained as motionless as the rock against which he leaned.
“The sun is well up and the streams have run themselves low—the leaves are dry and the moss no longer slippery,” was his response, when she had concluded, without in the slightest manner alluding to what he had just heard. “Osse ’o knows well what trail the white man will travel.”
“But my father—my dear, dear, father!” exclaimed the girl. “He could not have followed me.”
“The trail of the daughter must be straight as the crow flies to the moving wigwams of her people. When she is in safety, Osse ’o will find her father—or die.”
“Die? oh! not that. You have been so kind—so like a brother to me. Surely there is no danger to you.”