The features of the old chief, already nearly decomposed by the advent of death, assumed a sinister expression.
"You do not recognize me," he said in a hollow voice, "and yet you are my enemy. My hand has fallen heavily upon you. You remember your brother's horrible death? Well, it was I who killed him. Oh! A portion of my vengeance has escaped me today, it is true, but my soul will not fly away alone to our happy hunting grounds. This woman, the Queen of the Savannah, and her daughter are dead. I have, therefore, gained my object."
"You are mistaken, chief," honest Clary interrupted him, scandalized by the Indian's language at such a moment; "although the Queen of the Savannah, as you call Doña Emilia, is dead, I was so fortunate as to save her daughter."
A convulsive quivering ran over the Indian's body; he gave the hunter an angry look, but almost immediately resumed, with a triumphant look—
"I have also sacrificed another victim to my hatred, the boy I carried off and entrusted to the Sumach."
"Well?" the Canadian said, with a cunning look, with the evident intention of drawing the redskin into a thorough confession.
"Yes, yes," the chief continued bitterly, "I know that all the palefaces are cowards, and that this one betrayed me."
The adventurer gave a start of passion, which was at once checked.
"That boy," the sachem exclaimed with cruel delight, "Don Aníbal educated as if he were his own son. Ah, ah! That handsome Don Melchior Díaz!"
"Well?" the count said, with feverish impatience.