CHAPTER XX
THE COUNCIL FIRE
"Who calls me?" exclaimed the French trader, looking around him in some surprise.
Evidently, although he must have known that the Indians had a prisoner, whose fate was to be decided at the council that was even then gathering, he could never have dreamed, up to now, that it was any one who knew him.
"This way, please, monsieur. I am here in the lodge! Just to your right; now, if you look down you will see me!" cried Sandy, eagerly, though, if asked, he could not have told just why he fancied the Frenchman would assist him in the least.
"Sacre! what haf we here? A young Eenglish viper, it seems. Ha! and surely ve haf before now met! Is it not so?" said the trader, as by the light of the council fire he saw Sandy's face.
"Oh! yes, it was at Will's Creek. You remember we came into the place just before you left there, monsieur? You asked my father ever so many questions about what his business was. I am Sandy Armstrong, the youngest of his boys."
"So, zat ees the vay ze vind blows? You belong to zat Eenglish colony zat mean to cheat honest men out of zere bread and butter. Worst of all, you own to being ze son of ze very man who would take away our trade with ze red men! Ho! Sandy Armstrong, say you? A very good evening to you, Sandy. It ees quite varm, but perhaps not yet so varm as it may be, eh?"
The words were filled with much more of bitterness than seemed possible on the surface. Although he had not yet appealed to the trader for assistance, Sandy understood that no matter what he said, it would never touch the stony heart of the Frenchman. Jacques Larue was one of those frontiersmen who, having spent much of their lives amid scenes of turmoil and violence, could not listen to a plea for mercy, especially when uttered in an English voice.
"But I am a prisoner here, and these Indians may mean to put me to death?" the boy went on, making a last effort to touch the trader.