Charley gave him a glance of surprise; but being prevented from asking questions, he nodded in reply, and proceeded to relate to his friend the story that has been recounted in a previous chapter. Redfeather leaned back against a tree, and appeared to listen intently.
Charley’s powers of description were by no means inconsiderable, and the backwoodsman’s face assumed a look of good-humoured attention as the story proceeded. But when the narrator went on to tell of the meditated attack and the midnight march, his interest was aroused, the pipe which he had been smoking was allowed to go out, and he gazed at his young friend with the most earnest attention. It was evident that the hunter’s spirit entered with deep sympathy into such scenes; and when Charley described the attack, and the death of the trapper’s wife, Jacques seemed unable to restrain his feelings. He leaned his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, and groaned aloud.
“Mr Charles,” he said, in a deep voice, when the story was ended, “there are two men I would like to meet with in this world before I die: one is the young Injin who tried to save that girl’s life, the other is the cowardly villain that took it. I don’t mean the one who finished the bloody work; my rifle sent his accursed spirit to its own place—”
“Your rifle!” cried Charley, in amazement.
“Ay, mine! It was my wife who was butchered by these savage dogs on that dark night. Oh, what avails the strength o’ that right arm!” said Jacques bitterly, as he lifted up his clenched fist; “it was powerless to save her—the sweet girl who left her home and people to follow me, a rough hunter, through the lonesome wilderness!”
He covered his face again, and groaned in agony of spirit, while his whole frame quivered with emotion.
Jacques remained silent, and his sympathising friends refrained from intruding on a sorrow which they felt they had no power to relieve.
At length he spoke. “Yes,” said he; “I would give much to meet with the man who tried to save her. I saw him do it twice; but the devils about him were too eager to be balked of their prey.”
Charley and the Indian exchanged glances. “That Indian’s name,” said the former, “was Redfeather!”
“What!” exclaimed the trapper, jumping to his feet, and grasping Redfeather, who had also risen, by the two shoulders, stared wildly into his face; “was it you that did it?”