“The hands of the Blackbird do not tremble like a leaf shaken by the wind,” said he, pointing his rifle steadily towards the island. “But before firing, he will wait while he counts one hundred, for the answer of the whites who are hidden in the island.”
“Get behind me, Fabian,” said Bois-Rose.
“No, I stay here,” said Fabian, decidedly. “I am younger, and it is my place to expose myself for you.”
“Child! do you not see that my body exceeds yours six inches on every side, and your remaining in front is but presenting a double mark.”
And without shaking a single one of the reeds around the island, he advanced and knelt before Fabian.
“Let him do it, Fabian,” said Pepé. “Never had man a more noble buckler, than the heart of the giant which beats in fear for you.”
The Indian chief, rifle in hand, listened as he counted, but excepting the murmur of the water, a profound silence reigned everywhere.
He fired at length, and the leaves of the trees flew into the air; but as the three hunters knelt in a row they did not present a large aim, and the ball passed at some little distance from them.
The Blackbird waited a minute and cried again: “The Indian was wrong, he acknowledges his error, he will seek for the white warriors elsewhere.”
“Who believes that?” said Pepé; “he is more sure than ever. He is about to leave us alone for a few minutes, until he has finished with that poor devil yonder, which will not belong—since the death of a white is a spectacle which an Indian is always in a hurry to enjoy.”