“Killed? No. Impossible! My mother could not be killed because her destiny was not yet fulfilled. No: there was a deep pool right under the tree. She fell into that with a plunge that echoed from cliff to cliff. The Indians were profoundly superstitious. All Indians are not so, but these Indians were. They waited not for more. They turned and fled as if all the evil spirits in the Rocky Mountains were chasing them. They reached their wigwams breathless, and told their squaws that one of the spirits of a mountain stream had sat among the branches of a tree and sung to them. It had told them that the right time for attacking their foes had not yet come. Then it sang them a war-song descriptive of their final victory, and, just after uttering a tremendous war-whoop, it had dived back into its native stream.”
“Well done!” exclaimed an enthusiastic Canadian.
“But what became of your mother?” asked Morel.
“Oh! she swam ashore. My mother was a splendid swimmer. I know it, for she taught me.”
“Was it a long swim?” asked a sceptical sailor, who was one of the emigrants.
“How?—what mean you?” demanded La Certe, sternly.
“I only want to know if she took long to swim ashore out o’ that pool,” said the sceptic, simply.
La Certe cast on him a glance of suspicion, and replied that his mother had found no difficulty in getting out of the pool.
“Is the old lady alive yet?” asked the pertinacious sceptic.
“Of course not. She died long long ago—thirty years ago.”