Fort Mackenzie rose gloomy and majestic at about a gunshot off. The Indians had effected their march with such prudence, that the American garrison had given no sign of alarm. Natah Otann had a tent put up, into which he courteously begged his prisoners to enter, and they obeyed.
"Why so much politeness?" the Count said.
"Are you not my guests?" the Chief replied, with an ironical smile, and then withdrew.
The Count and his comrade, when left alone, lay down on a pile of furs intended for their bed.
"What is to be done?" the Count muttered, greatly discouraged.
"Sleep," the hunter said, carelessly. "Unless I am mistaken, we shall soon have some news."
"Heaven grant it!"
"Amen," Bright-eye continued, with a laugh. "Bah! we shall not die this time either."
"I hope so," the Count repeated, to say something.
"And I am sure of it. It would be curious, on my word," the hunter said, with a laugh, "were I, who have traversed the desert so long, to be killed by these red brutes."