“There are twelve wigwams, that is, twelve days’ journey for a warrior, which the Indians reckon at about fifteen miles a day. How much does fifteen times twelve make, sir?”
“One hundred and eighty, Malachi.”
“Well, sir, then that is to say that it is one hundred and eighty miles off, or thereabouts. Now, this first figure is a chief, for it has an eagle’s feather on the head of it, and the snake before it is his totem, ‘the Angry Snake,’ and the other six are the number of the band; and you observe, that the chief and the first figure of the six have a gun in their hands, which is to inform us that they have only two rifles among them.”
“Very true; but what is that little figure following the chief with his arms behind him?”
“There is the whole mystery of the letter, sir, without which it were worth nothing. You perceive that the little figure has a pair of snow-shoes over it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, that little figure is your brother Percival, whom we supposed to be dead.”
“Merciful heavens! is it possible?” exclaimed Alfred; “then he is alive!”
“There is no doubt of it, sir,” replied Malachi; “and now I will put the whole letter together. Your brother Percival has been carried off by the Angry Snake and his band, and has been taken to some place one hundred and eighty miles to the westward, and this information comes from the Indian woman who belongs to the band, and whose life was preserved by your kindness. I don’t think, Mr Alfred, that any white person could have written a letter more plain and more to the purpose.”