"What is the use of going any farther?" he said, resuming his soliloquy; "my horse wants rest, and I shall not be the worse for a halt. As well here as elsewhere."
On this, he took off his horse's saddle, carried his master's portmanteau to the foot of a tree, and began lighting a fire.
"How quickly night comes on in this confounded country," he muttered; "it is hardly eight o'clock, and it is as black as in an oven."
While discoursing thus all alone, he had collected a considerable quantity of dry wood; he returned to the spot he had selected for camping, piled up the wood, struck a light, knelt, and began blowing with all the strength of his lungs to make it catch. In a moment he raised his head to breathe; but uttered a yell of terror, and almost fell backwards. He had seen, about three paces from the fire, two persons silently watching him. The first moment of surprise past, the Breton bounded on his feet, and cocked his pistols.
"Confuse you," he shouted, "you gave me a pretty fright; but no matter, we will see."
"My brother may be at rest," a soft voice replied, in bad English, "we do not wish to do him any harm."
As a Breton, Ivon spoke nearly as good English as he did French. On hearing these words, he bent forward, and looked. "Oh!" he said, "the Indian girl."
"Yes, it is I," Prairie-Flower answered, as she stepped forward.
Her companion followed her, and Ivon recognized Red Wolf.
"You are welcome," he remarked, "to my poor encampment."