"So, zat ees the vay ze vind blows? You belong to zat Eenglish colony zat mean to cheat honest men out of zere bread and butter. Worst of all, you own to being ze son of ze very man who would take away our trade with ze red men! Ho! Sandy Armstrong, say you? A very good evening to you, Sandy. It ees quite varm, but perhaps not yet so varm as it may be, eh?" The words were filled with much more of bitterness than seemed possible on the surface. Although he had not yet appealed to the trader for assistance, Sandy understood that no matter what he said, it would never touch the stony heart of the Frenchman. Jacques Larue was one of those frontiersmen who, having spent much of their lives amid scenes of turmoil and violence, could not listen to a plea for mercy, especially when uttered in an English voice. "But I am a prisoner here, and these Indians may mean to put me to death?" the boy went on, making a last effort to touch the trader. With a shrug of the shoulders the indifferent Frenchman answered back: "Zat would be a great pity--for ze muzzer. But what would you haf me do? Zese Indians haf been my good friends. Zey haf lost many of zere best braves in zat battle with your people. It is ze habit of ze red men to put prisoners to ze death. I am sorry for you, boy; but my business it ees too valuable to reesk it by offending zese friends. So again, I bid you ze good evening, young Armstrong." Trembling with indignation, Sandy cast discretion to the winds. "Yes, I know why you will not lift a finger to try and save me!" he cried aloud; "you hate my father just because he expects to trade honestly with the friendly Indians. I have heard Colonel Boone speak of you and your breed. You set the redskins against the English--you fill them with firewater, and start them out on the warpath, to burn and murder. You are like a snake in the grass, Jacques Larue. And some day the rifle of a true borderer like Boone will lay you low!" The Frenchman could hardly believe his ears. For a mere youth to brave him thus to his face staggered him. He took a step toward the lodge, and half raised his arm as though tempted to strike the boy. "Yes, that would be just like a man of your stripe, Monsieur Larue. Helpless, a prisoner, and with my hands tied behind my back, hit me if it please you!" dared the impetuous lad, not even deigning to move back into the recesses of his lodge. "Sacre! I forgot!" muttered the Frenchman, bringing himself up with a round turn; and, whirling on his heel, he strode off toward the circle of braves. Presently several warriors were dispatched to convey the captive to the council ring. One of them Sandy recognized as the fellow who had spoken a few words of English at the time of his capture.