By this time le Bourdon was again sensible of his mistake, and he beat a retreat in the best manner he could, secretly resolving not to place himself any more between two fires, in consequence of further blunders on this delicate subject. He now found that it was a very different thing to joke Whiskey Centre himself on the subject of his great failing, from making even the most distant allusion to it in the presence of those who felt for a husband's and a brother's weakness, with a liveliness of feeling that brutal indulgence had long since destroyed in the object of their solicitude. He accordingly pointed out the risk there was that the Indians should make the obvious inference, that human beings must have recently been in the hut, to leave the fresh scent of the liquor in question behind them. This truth was so apparent that all felt its force, though to no one else did the danger seem so great as to the bee-hunter. He had greater familiarity with the Indian character than any of his companions, and dreaded the sagacity of the savages in a just proportion to his greater knowledge. He did not fail, therefore, to admonish his new friends of the necessity for vigilance. “I will return to the tree and take another look at the movements of the savages,” le Bourdon concluded by saying. “By this time their fire must be lighted; and by the aid of my glass a better insight may be had into their plans and feelings.” The bee-hunter now went back to his tree, whither he was slowly followed by Margery; the girl yielding to a feverish desire to accompany him, at the very time she was half restrained by maiden bashfulness; though anxiety and the wish to learn the worst as speedily as possible, prevailed. “They have kindled a blazing fire, and the whole of the inside of the house is as bright as if illuminated,” said le Bourdon, who was now carefully bestowed among the branches of his small tree. “There are lots of the red devils moving about the chiente, inside and out; and they seem to have fish as well as venison to cook. Aye, there goes more dry brush on the fire to brighten up the picture, and daylight is almost eclipsed. As I live, they have a prisoner among 'em!” “A prisoner!” exclaimed Margery, in the gentle tones of female pity. “Not a white person, surely?” “No--he is a red-skin like all of them--but--wait a minute till I can get the glass a little more steady. Yes--it is so--I was right at first!” “What is so, Bourdon--and in what are you right?”