"All poys ish bad," said the visitor with an impatient sniff, as he took off his cap and slouched to a chair on the opposite side of the fire. "Your poy ish badder dan any oder poy; mine Otto is lazy, and if he doesn't pring pack dot horse I vill pounds him till he don't live."
"He may never come back," said the lady in a low, impressive voice which would have moved anyone else, but it was lost on the boorish visitor.
"Hoof! No fear of dot; he alvays comes back ven ve doesn't vant him to come back."
"Well," said Mrs. Carleton with a sigh, "I am sorry I let Jack go, for if he had insisted on staying home your boy would have done the same, though if I was in Otto's place I would consider the woods, with all their dangers and sufferings, preferable to living with a parent who is as unfeeling as you."
Jacob Relstaub had both of his horny hands folded over the top of his heavy cane, which rested on the floor between his large shoes, while his cap, somewhat resembling the peaked head-gear of his boy, lay beside him. His broad, ill-favored countenance was darkened by a frown, and it was easy for the lady to see that the fellow still doubted her word. His manner of looking about the large room, and a habit of listening intently, as though he expected to bear approaching footsteps, showed that he suspected Otto was hiding somewhere in the cabin. Mrs. Carleton understood his feelings and she was annoyed to anger, for her sensitive nature felt the insult keenly. Beside, she despised the coarse nature of the man who seemed so totally lacking in humanity.
The lady was on the point of reproving him with sharp words, when both were astonished by a gentle knock on the door, such a hail being contrary to all the rules of the frontier, when the latch-string is not drawn in. Both looked quickly toward the entrance, and the lady raised her voice and said:
"The latch-string is out!"
The words were yet on her lips when it was pulled, and the door swung inward.
The firelight fell upon the figure of an Indian warrior, who stopped on the threshold as if he doubted whether he would be welcome when those within saw him. As he stood with the blank darkness behind him and the crimson glow from the burning logs lighting up the front of his body, he formed a most striking picture.
He was the ideal of symmetry and manly beauty—one of those productions of the American race which are very rare, but which, when seen, are the nearest approach to physical and mental perfection that is ever attained in this world. He was about five feet ten inches in height, and with body and limbs in as perfect proportion as the chisel of Phidias ever carved from marble. Even his long, black hair, which hung luxuriantly and loosely about his shoulders, was of softer texture than is the rule with his people. Several stained eagle feathers slanted upward and outward from the crown, and a double row of brilliant beads encircled his neck. A fine gold bracelet clasped his left wrist, and the deer-skin hunting shirt and leggings were clean, and of the finest possible make. They retained their dull, yellow hue, but the girdle which clasped his body at the waist was of a red color, so bright that it seemed likely to attract dangerous attention in the forest. The leggings were fringed, and the delicate moccasins were also ornamented with colored beads. The heavy blanket which he carried during severe weather was lacking, for it would have been only an encumbrance when the climate was mild.