It is but fair to say that in all this time no one had ever heard from Sandy's lips one syllable of the adventure we have related, nor did he ever, in the remotest degree, allude to it in intercourse with his master. Sandy was little disposed to descant either on the life or the character of his master; the Scotch element of caution was mingled strongly through his nature, and he preferred any other topic of conversation than such as led to domestic events. Whether that he was less on his guard on this evening, or that, esteeming Tate's perceptions at no very high rate, so it is, he talked more freely and unadvisedly than was his wont. “Ye hae a bra berth o' it here, Maister Sullivan,” said he, as he smacked his lips after the smoking compound, whose odor pronounced it mulled port; “I maun say, that a man wha has seen a good deal of life might do far war' than settle down in a snug little nook like this; maybe, ye hae no journeyed far in your time either.” “Indeed, 'tis true for you, Mr. M'Grane, I had not the opportunities you had of seeing the world, and the strange people in foreign parts; they tell me you was in Jericho, and Jerusalem, and Gibraltar.” “Further than that, Maister Sullivan. I hae been in very curious places wi' Mr. Daly; this day nine years we were in the Rocky Mountains, among the Red Indians.” “The Red Indians! blood alive! them was dangerous neighbors.” “Not in our case. My master was a chief among them, I was the doctor of the tribe,--the 'Great Mystery Man,' they cau'd me; my master's name was the 'Howling Wind.'” “Sorra doubt, but it was not a bad one,--listen to him now;” and Tate lifted his hand to enforce silence, while a cheer loud and sonorous rang out, and floated in rich cadence along the arched corridors of the old abbey; “'tis singing he is,” added Tate, lower, while he opened the door to listen. “That's no a sang, that's the war-cry of the Manhattas,” said Sandy, gravely. “The saints be praised it's no worse!” remarked Tate, with pious horror in every feature. “I thought he was going to raise the divil. And who was the man-haters, Mr. M'Grane?” added he, meekly. “A vara fine set o' people; a leetle fond o' killing and eating their neighbors, but friendly and ceevil to strangers; I hae a wife amang them mysel.” “A wife! Is she a Christian, then?” “Nae muck le o' that, but a douce, good-humored lassie for a' that.” “And she'sa black?” “Na, na; she was a rich copper tint, something deeper than my waistcoat here, but she had twa yellow streaks over her forehead, and the tip o' her nose was blue.” “The mother of Heaven be near us! she was a beauty, by all accounts.” “Ay, that she was; the best-looking squaw of the tribe, and rare handy wi' a hatchet.” “Divil fear her,” muttered Tate, between his teeth. “And what was her name, now?” “Her name was Orroawaccanaboo, the 'Jumping Wild Cat.'”