The Indian who acted as interpreter spoke rapidly to the chief, who replied, and then the Indian turned to the Doctor and Bart.
“The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth says if we want to go out to fight, they are so many we should all be killed. We must not go.”
“He is right, Bart,” said the Doctor, hoarsely. “I am willing enough to fight, but the presence of Maude seems to unman me. I dare not attempt anything that would risk her life.”
“But it is so horrible,” cried Bart, peering out of his hiding-place excitedly, but only to feel the Beaver’s hand upon his shoulder, forcing him down into his old niche.
“Indian dog see,” whispered the Beaver, who was rapidly picking up English words and joining them together.
The sharp report of rifle after rifle was heard now, and after every shot there was a guttural yell of satisfaction.
“They will kill them, sir,” panted Bart, who seemed as if he could hardly bear to listen to what was going on.
“They must have been dead, poor fellows, when they were hung up there, Bart. I would that we dared attack the monsters.”
“Can you see any sign of Joses, sir?” asked Bart.
“No, my boy; no sign of him, poor fellow! Heaven grant that he be not seen.”