"Well, there's the chance of getting your hair raised by the Indians. Do you know what that means—having your hair raised?"
"I suppose being scalped."
"Exactly. Well, that's a danger. But it isn't so much a danger if you don't go about in gangs. That's the mistake fellows make; they think it's the safe thing to do, but it isn't. Go about in parties of two, and the Indians never will see you—never will notice you."
Minola's eyes happened at this moment to meet those of Heron.
"You know Heron?"
"Oh, yes; very well."
"A good fellow—very good fellow, though he has such odd philanthropic fads about niggers and man and a brother, and all that sort of thing. Got into a nice mess out there in St. Xavier's, didn't he?"
"I heard that his conduct did him great honor," Minola said warmly.
"Yes, yes—of course, yes; if you look at it in that sort of way. But these black fellows, you know—it really isn't worth a man's while bothering about them. They're just as well off in slavery as not—deuced deal better, I think; I dare say some of their kings and chiefs think they have a right to sell them if they like. I told Heron at the time I wouldn't bother if I was he. Where's the use, you know?"
"Were you there at the time?" Minola asked, with some curiosity.