"Curumilla's prolonged absence. He has left us for nearly three hours without telling us the reason, and has not returned yet."
"Have you any suspicion of him?" the hunter said with a certain degree of bitterness.
"Brother," Louis replied, "you are unjust at this moment. I do not suspect; I am restless, that is all. Like yourself, I feel a too lively and sincere friendship for the chief not to fear some accident."
"Curumilla is prudent; no one is so well acquainted as he with Indian tricks. If he has not returned, there are important reasons for it, be assured."
"I am convinced of it; but the delay his absence causes us may prove injurious."
"How do you know, brother? Perhaps our safety depends on this very absence. Believe me, Louis, I know Curumilla much better than you do. I have slept too long side by side with him not to place the utmost confidence in him. Thus, you see, I patiently await his return."
"But supposing he has fallen into a snare, or has been killed?"
Valentine regarded his foster brother with a most peculiar look; then he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, and an air of supreme contempt,—
"He fallen into a snare! Curumilla dead! Nonsense, brother, you must be jesting! You know perfectly well that is impossible."
Louis had no objection to offer to this simple profession of faith.