"God grant you may be right, captain! but I have passed all my life in the clearings, and know the manners of the redskins, while you have only been on the frontiers two years."
"That is quite as long as is necessary," the captain interrupted, peremptorily.
"Nevertheless, with your permission, Indians are men, and the Comanches, who were treacherously assassinated here, in contempt of the laws of nations, were warriors renowned in their tribe."
"White Eyes, you are of mixed breed, you lean a little too much to the red race," said the captain ironically.
"The red race," the hunter replied proudly, "are loyal; they do not assassinate for the pleasure of shedding blood, as you yourself did, four days ago, in killing those two warriors who were passing inoffensively in their canoe, under the pretence of trying a new gun which you had received from Acropolis."
"Well, well! that's enough! Spare me your comments, White Eyes, I am not disposed to receive observations from you."
The hunter bowed awkwardly, threw his gun upon his shoulder and retired grumbling.
"That's all one!—Blood that is shed cries for vengeance; the redskins are men, and will not leave the crime unpunished."
The captain retired into the fort, visibly annoyed by what the half-breed had said to him. Gradually the inhabitants dispersed, after wishing each other good night, and closed their dwellings with that carelessness peculiar to men accustomed to risk their lives every minute.
An hour later night had completely set in, thick darkness enveloped the village, and the inhabitants, fatigued with the rude labours of the day, were reposing in profound security.