"It would have been better to leave me to die in the hole, into which you helped to place me, than save me to die of hunger in the desert, become the prey of wild beasts, or fall into the hands of the Indians. You know, Brighteye, that on the prairies a disarmed man is a dead man; you do not save me at this moment, but render my agony longer and more painful, since the weapon which, in their cruel generosity, your friends left me to put an end to my misfortunes, when courage and hope failed me, can no longer serve me at present."
"That is true," Brighteye muttered.
The hunter let his head sink on his chest, and reflected deeply for several seconds. Don Estevan anxiously followed in the loyal and characteristic face of the hunter all the emotions by turns reflected there. The Canadian continued—"You are right in asking me for weapons. If you are deprived of them, you run the risk of being, in a few hours, in a similar position to that from which I took you."
"You allow it."
"By Jove! there is no doubt about it."
"Then be generous to the end. Give me the means of defending myself." The hunter shook his head.
"I did not think of that," he said.
"Which means, that had you thought of it, you would have let me die."
"Perhaps so."
This word fell like the blow of a sledgehammer on Don Estevan's heart. He gave the hunter a suspicious glance. "What you say, then, is not well," he remarked.