“And did you never see him again?” inquired Harry Somerville, eagerly.
“No, I never saw him more. Immediately afterwards I turned to rejoin my companions, whom I soon overtook, and entered our village along with them. I was regarded as a poor warrior, because I brought home no scalps, and ever afterwards I went by the name of Redfeather in our tribe.”
“But are you still thought a poor warrior?” asked Charley, in some concern, as if he were jealous of the reputation of his new friend.
The Indian smiled. “No,” he said: “our village was twice attacked afterwards, and in defending it, Redfeather took many scalps. He was made a chief!”
“Ah!” cried Charley, “I’m glad of that. And Wabisca, what came of her? Did Misconna get her?”
“She is my wife,” replied Redfeather.
“Your wife! Why, I thought I heard the voyageurs call your wife the white swan.”
“Wabisca is white in the language of the Knisteneux. She is beautiful in form, and my comrades call her the white swan.”
Redfeather said this with an air of gratified pride. He did not, perhaps, love his wife with more fervour than he would have done had he remained with his tribe; but Redfeather had associated a great deal with the traders, and he had imbibed much of that spirit which prompts “white men” to treat their females with deference and respect—a feeling which is very foreign to an Indian’s bosom. To do so was, besides, more congenial to his naturally unselfish and affectionate disposition, so that any flattering allusion to his partner was always received by him with immense gratification.
“I’ll pay you a visit some day, Redfeather, if I’m sent to any place within fifty miles of your tribe,” said Charley with the air of one who had fully made up his mind.