"Who are you, sir? In the name of God who are you? Your voice is like that of a man who is very dear to me."
"I am Archibald Cameron, of Lochiel," came the answer, "once the friend of your countrymen; now their enemy, and well deserving the fate which is in store for him."
"Mr. Archie," replied Dumais, for he it was, "although you had slain my brother, although it should be necessary for me to cut down these two red rascals with my tomahawk, in an hour you shall be free. I shall try persuasion before resorting to violent measures. Now silence."
Dumais resumed his place with the Indians, and after a time he remarked:
"The prisoner thanks the red-skins for promising him the death of a man; he says that the song of the pale face will be that of a warrior."
"Houa!" said Grand-Loutre, "the Englishman will screech like an owl when he sees the fires of our wigwams." And he went on smoking and casting glances of contempt upon Lochiel.
"The Englishman," said Talamousse, "speaks like a man while the stake is yet far off. The Englishman is a coward who could not suffer thirst. He has begged his enemies for a drink like a baby crying for its mother." And the Indian spit upon the ground contemptuously.
Dumais opened a wallet, took out some provisions, and offered a portion to the savages, who refused to eat. Then he stepped into the woods, and after a short search brought out a bottle of brandy. He took a drink and began to eat. The eyes of one of the Indians dwelt longingly on the bottle.
"Talamousse is not hungry, my brother," said he, "but he is very thirsty. He has made a long march to-day and he is very tired. The fire-water is good to rest one's legs."
Dumais passed him the bottle. The Indian seized it with a trembling hand and gulped down a good half of the contents.