"Who is he?" the monk asked.
The Indian did not seem to hear the question, for he went on—
"Very often the Redskin warrior has been led a short distance from his friend by the incidents of the chase, but never near enough to make himself known."
"That is unfortunate."
"The Chief would like to see his friend, and smoke the calumet of peace with him at the council fire, while conversing about old times, and the period when, as children of the same tribe, they traversed together the hunting grounds of the Sachem's terrible nation."
"Then the hunter is an Indian?"
"No, he is a Paleface; but if his skin is white, the Great Spirit has placed an Indian heart in his bosom."
"But why does not the Chief frankly go and join his friend, if he knows where he is? He would be probably delighted to see him again."
At this insinuation, which he was far from anticipating, the Chief frowned, and a cloud momentarily crossed his face; but the monk was too little of an observer to remark this emotion: he had asked the question, as he would have done any other, unmeaningly, and simply to show the Chief by replying that he was an attentive listener. After a few seconds, the Indian reassumed that apathy which the Redskins rarely put off, and only when taken by surprise, and continued—
"Blue-fox does not go to meet his friend, because the latter is not alone, and has with him enemies of your Chief."