“Is it, then, quite certain, M’sieur, that they have gone, but beyond doubt,” pleaded a timorous voice from some remote depth of obscurity. “Wretched coward! of much use thou hast been. And where hast thou hidden thy miserable carcase?” returned du Chesne in hot anger. “Scaramouch! screech-owl! much help thou hast been in saving my demoiselle and me,” Nanon mocked one of her most constant admirers. “Oh, that I were entrusted with the wringing of thy unworthy neck.” With an insinuating smile on his sleek, fat face the valet crept out from the dark corner which had afforded him shelter. “Ouf! that such should exist!” the young commandant cried contemptuously. “Poltroon! art thou not ashamed to show thy face?” “But, M’sieur du Chesne; figure to yourself—it is quite simple,” with an affectation of innocent frankness. “It is the nature of M’sieur to be courageous, to love fighting—it is well. It is the delight of Nanon to chatter. It is Bibelot’s instinct to hate the savages; you observe even the smell of one throws her into a frenzy. For me, I have an invincible repugnance to the scalping knife of the Iroquois. Had I permitted myself to be killed M’sieur would have lost a faithful servant, and these pagans would have added a fresh sin to the list of their enormities. May I ask, M’sieur, is it the duty of good Christians to tempt the heathen? Should they not rather give an example of patience and resignation?” The new arrivals now claimed attention. Sunburned warriors they were, of tall stalwart build, limbed like statues. Success had crowned their arms, as shown in the imposing array of scalps and the necklaces of ears and fingers which many of them wore. They looked like painted spectres, grotesquely horrible in horns and tails; their faces painted red or green, with black or white spots; their ears and noses hung with ornaments of iron, and their naked bodies daubed with figures of various animals. These fierce, capricious braves smiled upon the fiery young soldier whose courage had long since won their approbation. “What, my brother, we have arrived in time to strengthen your arm against our foes?” exclaimed the principal war chief. “The face of our white brother is welcome to the eyes of Howaha.” The last time du Chesne had met Howaha was at the annual fair in Ville Marie, when he appeared in a picturesque attire befitting his dignity and rank. He was much less imposing now as he squatted on the grass after his triumphs, chopping rank tobacco with a scalping-knife. An astute old savage, well trained in arts of policy, he showed every disposition to render himself agreeable to the son of the influential French trader. “But look, du Chesne! Here is a white prisoner—a woman, too. Oh, surely she is not dead!” cried Diane.