Each of the white men added as much, for every one of them had distinctly heard the blast. Still neither could suggest any probable clue to the mystery. The Indians said nothing; but it was so much in conformity with their habits for red men to maintain silence, whenever any unusual events awakened feelings in others, that no one thought their deportment out of rule. As for Peter, a statue of stone could scarcely have been colder in aspect than was this chief, who seemed to be altogether raised above every exhibition of human feeling. Even the corporal gaped, though much excited, for he had been suddenly aroused from a deep sleep; but Peter was as much superior to physical, as to moral impressions, on this occasion. He made no suggestion, manifested no concern, exhibited no curiosity; and when the men withdrew, again, to their proper habitation, he walked back with them, in the same silence and calm, as those with which he had advanced. Gershom, however, entered within the palisade, and passed the remainder of the night with his family. The bee-hunter and the Chippewa accidentally came together, as the men moved slowly toward their own hut, when the following short dialogue occurred between them. “Is that you, Pigeonswing?” exclaimed le Bourdon, when he found his friend touching an elbow, as if by chance. “Yes, dis me--want better friend, eh?” “No, I'm well satisfied to have you near me, in an alarm, Chippewa. We've stood by each other once, in troublesome times; and I think we can do as much, ag'in.” “Yes; stand by friend--dat honor. Nebber turn back on friend; dat my way.” “Chippewa, who blew the blast on the horn?--can you tell me THAT?” “Why don't you ask Peter? He wise chief--know eb-beryt'ing. Young Injin ask ole Injin when don't know--why not young pale-face ask ole man, too, eh?” “Pigeonswing, if truth was said, I believe it would be found that you suspect Peter of having a hand in this business?” This speech was rather too idiomatic for the comprehension of the Indian, who answered according to his own particular view of the matter. “Don't blow horn wid hand,” he said--“Injin blow wid mout', just like pale-face.” The bee-hunter did not reply; but his companion's remark had a tendency to revive in his breast certain unpleasant and distrustful feelings toward the mysterious savage, which the incidents and communications of the last two weeks had had a strong tendency to put to sleep. CHAPTER XV. None knows his lineage, age, or name; His looks are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes Beam with the wisdom of collected ages In green, unbroken years he sees, 'tis said, The generations pass like autumn fruits, Garner'd, consumed, and springing fresh to life, Again to perish-- --HILLHOUSE