The supper scene of the previous night was, in most of its details, enacted over again; but it was resolved that each of the party should keep watch for an hour, as, if the Indians had followed, there was a possibility of their having gained on them during the delay at the precipice.
Before the watch was set, however, and while all the party were enjoying their pipes after supper, the Black Swan suddenly exclaimed, “Ho!” and pointed with his finger to something which peeped out of the snow at Larry’s elbow, that volatile individual having uncovered it during some of his eccentric movements.
“It’s only an owld mocassin,” said Larry, plucking the object from the snow as he spoke; “some Injun lad has throw’d it away for useless.”
“Hand it here,” said Robin, re-lighting his pipe, which had gone out.
Larry tossed the mocassin to his leader, who eyed it carelessly for a moment. Suddenly he started, and, turning the mocassin over, examined it with close and earnest attention. Then he smiled, as if at his passing anxiety, and dropped it on the ground.
“It reminded me,” said he to Walter, “of my Nelly, for it has something of the same shape that she was fond of, an’ for a moment I was foolish enough to think it might ha’ belonged to the dear child, but—. Come, Larry, have ’ee got any more tea there?”
“Is it tay ye want? faix, then, it’s little more nor laves that’s remainin’,” said Larry, draining the last drops into a pannikin; “well, there’s about half a mug-full, afther all; it’s wonderful what can be got out o’ it sometimes by squaazin’ the pot.”
“Hand it over, that’s enough,” said Robin, “thank ’ee, lad—here’s luck.”
He drained the pannikin as though it had been a glass of rum, and, smacking his lips, proceeded leisurely to refill his pipe.
“Are ye sure it’s not one of Nelly’s old mocassins?” asked Walter, as he eyed the little shoe earnestly.