"The French never lie when they speak of the Great Spirit," said the Canadian; and, opening his knapsack, he took a small sip of brandy. "Give me, my brother, give me one little drink," said Talamousse, stretching out his hand. "If Talamousse will sell me his share of the prisoner," said Dumais, "he shall have another drink." "Give me all the fire-water," said Talamousse, "and take my share of the English dog." "No," said Dumais, "one more drink and that will be all;" and he made a movement to put away the bottle. "Give it to me, then, and take my share of him." He seized the bottle in both hands, took a long pull at the precious fluid, and then fell asleep on the grass. "There's one of them fixed," thought Dumais. Grand-Loutre had been watching all this with an air of defiance, but had kept on smoking indifferently. "Now will my brother sell me his share of the prisoner?" asked Dumais. "What do you want of him?" replied the savage. "To sell him to Captain D'Haberville, who will have him hung for burning his house. The prisoner will endure like a warrior the tortures of the stake, but at sight of the rope he will weep like a girl." "My brother lies again," replied Grand-Loutre. "All the English that we have burned cried out like cowards, and not one of them sang his death-song like a man. They would have thanked us to hang them. It is only the red warrior who prefers the stake to the disgrace of being hung like a dog." "Let my brother heed my words," said Dumais. "The prisoner is not an Englishman, but a Scotchman, and the Scotch are the savages of the English. Let my brother observe the prisoner's clothing, and see how like it is to that of a savage warrior." "That is true," said Grand-Loutre. "He does not smother himself in clothes like the other soldiers whom the Great Ononthio sends across the water. But what has that to do with it?" "Why," replied the Canadian, "a Scotch warrior would rather be burned than be hung. Like the red-skins of Canada, he considers that one hangs only dogs, and that if he were to go to the country of souls with the rope about his neck the savage warriors would refuse to hunt with him." "My brother lies again," said the Indian, shaking his head incredulously. "The Scotch savages are nevertheless pale faces, and they can not have the courage to endure pain like a red-skin." And he went on smoking thoughtfully. "Let my brother hearken, and he will see that I speak the truth," said Dumais. "Speak, thy brother gives ear."