Everybody now rose from table, filled his pipe and lighted it, and then, the repast having in the meantime been cleared away, seated themselves by the fire. "Chief," said the old man, "the time has come. We are ready to listen to you with the deepest attention." Rising and bowing to all, the chief, who affected stoical gravity, but who had great difficulty in controlling his voice, spoke-- "Lagrenay's wife was never ill. Evening Dew was carried off by Tom Mitchell from the squatters." "Are you quite positive?" asked the grandfather. "I am positive. The news was brought to me just now by a courier in whom I have every confidence. He saw all that happened without himself being seen." A deep silence prevailed. None interrupted the old man. "Allow me," he said, "to speak frankly to you, chief. You are my relative; I remember your birth, and love you." "My father is good, and knows I love him," replied the chief. "I know it; but pardon me if I speak very plainly. There is a hesitation in your words which alarms me excessively. I am sure you have not told us all you think." The chief bowed his head. "I knew I was right," cried the old man; "you know far more than you choose to say." "No skin covers my heart, my blood runs red and clear in my veins; the Wacondah sees and judges me. Let my father explain himself frankly. I ought only to speak after him. His head is white with the snows of wisdom. He is wise." "Good, Numank-Charake, you are a great brave, despite your youth. Soon you will be renowned in council. I know the motives which shut your mouth. You love her." The young man started. "Do not deny it," said the old man. "I know it, as does my son, and we rejoice both of us. She will be happy with one who is both strong and brave. Not knowing our sentiments towards you, you have nobly hesitated to accuse a near relative. You have acted well. But time presses, and not a moment is to be lost. We know our cousin as well, or perhaps better, than you do. We know also that falsehood never soiled your lips. To keep further silence would be to commit a bad action--to make yourself almost the accomplice of the ravishers. Speak out, then, like a man." "I obey," replied the young man, respectfully. "And hide nothing, I pray," added François Berger.