Hutter opened his glassy eyes, and stared wildly at the speaker. A flood of confused recollections rushed on his wavering mind at the sight of his late comrade. It was evident that he struggled with his own images, and knew not the real from the unreal.
“Who are you?” he asked in a husky whisper, his failing strength refusing to aid him in a louder effort of his voice.
“Who are you?—You look like the mate of 'The Snow'—he was a giant, too, and near overcoming us.”
“I'm your mate, Floating Tom, and your comrade, but have nothing to do with any snow. It's summer now, and Harry March always quits the hills as soon after the frosts set in, as is convenient.”
“I know you—Hurry Skurry—I'll sell you a scalp!—a sound one, and of a full grown man—What'll you give?”
“Poor Tom! That scalp business hasn't turned out at all profitable, and I've pretty much concluded to give it up; and to follow a less bloody calling.”
“Have you got any scalp? Mine's gone—How does it feel to have a scalp? I know how it feels to lose one—fire and flames about the brain—and a wrenching at the heart—no—no—kill first, Hurry, and scalp afterwards.”
“What does the old fellow mean, Judith? He talks like one that is getting tired of the business as well as myself. Why have you bound up his head? or, have the savages tomahawked him about the brains?”
“They have done that for him which you and he, Harry March, would have so gladly done for them. His skin and hair have been torn from his head to gain money from the governor of Canada, as you would have torn theirs from the heads of the Hurons, to gain money from the Governor of York.”
Judith spoke with a strong effort to appear composed, but it was neither in her nature, nor in the feeling of the moment to speak altogether without bitterness. The strength of her emphasis, indeed, as well as her manner, caused Hetty to look up reproachfully.