"Flying Eagle will return to his village mounted on a horse worthy of so great a Chief," she said, on noticing him.
The Indian smiled haughtily. "Yes," he answered, "the sachems will be proud of him."
And with the simple childishness so well suited to the primitive roughness of these men of iron, he amused himself, for some time, with making the horse perform the most difficult passes and curvets, happy at the terrified admiration of the woman he loved, and who could not refrain from trembling on perceiving him manage this magnificent animal with such ease. The Chief at length dismounted, and, while still holding the bridle in his hand, sat down by the young woman's side.
They remained thus for a long time, without exchanging a word. Flying Eagle seemed to be reflecting deeply; his eyes wandered about in the darkness, as if wishing to penetrate it, and distinguish some distant object in the distance. He listened eagerly to the sounds of the solitude, while playing mechanically with his scalping knife. "There they are," he suddenly cried, as he rose, as if moved by a spring.
Eglantine looked at him with astonishment.
"Does not my sister hear?" he asked her.
"Yes," she replied in a moment, "I hear the sound of horses in the forest."
"They are the Palefaces returning to their camp."
"Shall we follow them?"
"Flying Eagle never leaves, without a reason, the path made by his moccasins. Eglantine will accompany the warrior."