"My father was a child when we left Canada. He is now about forty-eight. My grandfather taught him to be a hunter, and to bind him to the tribe he married him when very young to a charming young Indian, a relative of Kouha-hande, and my mother in consequence. We are mere children. I am only twenty, and my sister but fifteen, lovely as the breath of dawn, and whose real name is Angela, my father's wish. But the Indians call her Evening Dew. That is all. I am a hunter. I hate the English and the North Americans, who are worse than John Bull himself, and I love the French, whose countryman I am." "You are quite right. Few native-born Frenchmen are such strong patriots as you. But now for your name." "Have I not told you? My name is Pierre Berger, but the Indians, in their mania for such names, call me Bright-eye, I hardly know why." "Of course because of your admirable power of shooting." "Well, perhaps you are right. I am a pretty good hand," said the young man, modestly. "And now, my friend, I have to add that I reached here yester evening at sundown, and that I am waiting for a friend, who will be here shortly. It is now your turn to tell me your history, unless, indeed, you have any motives for remaining silent, in which case a man's secrets are his own." "I have no secrets, especially from you, my dear Bright-eye, and the proof is that if you will listen, I will tell you who I am and why I came into this country." "I shall be delighted to hear your story," cried the Canadian, with evident delight. From the very first moment when he saw the hunter and came to speak to him, Oliver felt himself attracted towards him by one of those movements of attraction or irresistible sympathy which spring from intuition of the heart. He had therefore, during his conversation, determined if possible to make him a friend. He thereupon told him his story in its most minute details, the Canadian listening with the most profound and sustained attention, without interrupting him by a single remark. He appeared sincerely interested in the numerous incidents of a life wretched from its commencement, and yet which the young man told frankly and simply, without bitterness, but with an impartiality which indicated the grandeur and nobility of his nature. "Sad story, indeed," he cried, when the other had concluded; "how you must have suffered from the unjust hatred of these people! Alone in the world, without any to interest himself in you; surrounded by hostile or indifferent people; compelled to suffer from dark and insidious foes; capable of great things--young, strong, and intelligent, yet reduced to fly into the desert, and separate yourself from your fellows. Pardon if my cruel curiosity has reopened the wound which long since should have been cauterised." He paused, keenly watching the other's face. "Will you be my friend?" he suddenly cried. "I already feel for you an affection I can scarcely explain."