As the green grasshopper clings, even after detection, blindly to the leaf that it so closely resembles, so Gabriel clung instinctively to his branch, and even when a sinewy hand grasped his ankle, made no sign. The forest-bred boy obeyed the instinct of all woodland creatures; besides, there was one hope left, faint as it was, and were he to move or speak he might lose even that. “Wild Deer?” “Jean Jacques?” Wild Deer was the name by which the friendly Micmacs called him. Now for the test. Was the Indian true? “Wild Deer, the great medicine man of your tribe is on the trail.” “I know. What wilt thou do? Betray me to him?” The low-breathed question and answer swept quickly back and forth. “The red man betrays not him who is skilled as himself.” “What wilt thou do then?” “Let Wild Deer descend and follow his friend.” Gliding to the ground with a noiselessness and rapidity equal to that of the Indian, Gabriel, at a sign from his companion, followed him on his sinuous track. Was he his friend? He had dwelt too long with the red men not to dread the treachery which is the inevitable consequence of centuries of savage and relentless warfare, tribe with tribe, red man with white man. Nevertheless, he pushed on; what else could he do? The gray dawn peered beneath a veil of cloud before they paused on the edge of the forest. Gabriel’s powers were well-nigh spent; ill treatment and privation had sapped his young strength. The spot where they had halted was the last camping-ground of the Micmacs. Going to a hollow tree, Jean Jacques drew from it some strips of sun-dried beef and a few dried leaves, which Gabriel recognized as those of the coca plant, on which, when unable to obtain food, the red man makes arduous journeys, lasting for days together. “Eat,” he said with native brevity; “then put these leaves in thy mouth and chew them as we go. The strength of the pale face will come back to him as that of the young eagle.” Gabriel obeyed, imitating the taciturnity of the Indian. When at length, refreshed and strengthened, he arose to prosecute his attempt to reach Halifax, Jean Jacques, with a grunt, declined not only to be thanked, but to leave him. “I too go to the new fort,” he remarked calmly. “Thou wilt go?” A sudden suspicion overwhelmed him. Could it be that his apparent rescue was one of the priest’s deep laid plots? That Jean Jacques, heavily bribed with French gold, was but carrying out some scheme of treachery which should involve the defenders of the fort as well as himself? The supposition was an only too plausible one, given such a man as Le Loutre and such lucre-lovers as the Micmacs. The Indian’s impervious countenance revealed nothing. To question him would be vain. Well, he must go forward and hope for the best; no other course was open to him.