"No," said he, with a sad voice; "I see that I am really lost this time; all that I might do would but hasten my destruction; better resign myself to my fate."
The Indian looked at him for some moments with an astonishment that he did not seek to dissimulate.
"Was I not right, master," he resumed at last, "to ask you at the commencement of this conversation, if you had courage?"
"What do you mean?" cried the young man, suddenly collecting himself, and darting a look at the Indian.
Tyro did not lower his eyes; his countenance remained impassive, and it was with the same calm voice, with the same careless accent, that he continued:
"In this country, master, courage does not resemble in anything what you possess. Every man is brave with the sabre or the gun in hand—especially here, where, without reckoning men, we are constantly obliged to struggle against all kinds of animals of the most destructive and ferocious character; but what signifies that?"
"I do not understand you," answered the young man.
"Pardon me, master, for teaching you things of which you are ignorant. There is a courage that you must acquire—it is that which consists in appearing to give in when the strife is unequal—reserving yourself, while you feign flight, to take your revenge later. Your enemies have an immense advantage over you; they know you; they therefore act against you with certainty, while you do not know them. You are liable at the first movement you make to fall into the snare spread under your feet, and thus to give yourself up without hope of vengeance."
"What you say is full of sense, Tyro; only you speak to me in enigmas. Who are these enemies whom I do not know, and who appear so determined on my destruction?"
"I cannot yet tell you their names, master; but have patience—a day will come when you will know them."