"You are mad; let me pass, old hunter, and do not oblige me to use force."
"No, no, Chief," Bright-eye added, with an ironical laugh; "we shall not part like that; all the worse for you; you should not have put your head in the wolf's throat."
Natah Otann made an impatient gesture.
"You wish it; well, then, see!"
Raising to his lips his war-whistle, made of a human thigh bone, he produced a shrill sound. All at once, before the two Europeans could comprehend what was happening, the sides of the tent were cut open, and the Blackfeet bounded into the interior. The Count and Bright-eye were seized and disarmed. The Sachem, with his arms still crossed on his chest, looked like a stoic, while the Kenhas, with their eyes fixed on the Chief, and uplifted tomahawks, seemed to await from him a final signal.
There was a moment of intense anxiety; though the two white men were so brave, the attack had been so rapid and unexpected, that they could not refrain from an inward shudder. For a few seconds the Chief enjoyed his triumph; then, raising his hand, with a gesture of supreme authority, he said,—
"Enough! Restore their weapons to these warriors. Are they not the guests of Natah Otann?"
The Blackfeet retired as suddenly as they had appeared.
"Well," the Chief asked, with slight irony, "do you understand me at last? Do you still fancy me in your power?"
"Very good, sir," the Count replied, coldly, still suffering from the struggle he had gone through; "I am forced to recognize the advantage that chance gives you over me; any resistance would be useless. I consent to submit for the present to your will; but only on two conditions."