The two hunters had been long known in the tribe of the Serpent; their reputation was established. Often at night, around their campfire, their exploits had struck with admiration the young men to whom the old warriors related them.
The reconciliation was frank between Loyal Heart and Eagle Head; there did not remain between them the least trace of their past hatred. The heroism of the white hunter had conquered the animosity of the redskin warrior.
The two men were chatting, peaceably seated at the entrance of a hut, when a great cry was heard, and an Indian, with his features distorted by terror, rushed into the camp.
All crowded round this man to learn his news; but the Indian, perceiving Eagle Head, advanced towards him.
"What is going on?" the chief asked.
The Indian cast a ferocious look at Loyal Heart and Belhumeur, who had no more idea than the others of the cause of this panic.
"Take care that these two palefaces do not escape; we are betrayed," he said, in a broken voice, panting from the speed with which he had come.
"Let my brother explain himself more clearly," said Eagle Head.
"All the white trappers, the long knives of the west, are assembled; they form a war detachment of near a hundred men; they are advancing and spreading themselves in such a manner, as to invest the camp on all sides at once."
"Are you sure these hunters come as enemies?" said the chief again.