Ethelston’s party being provided with some coffee, sugar, biscuits, and other luxuries, which had been long strange to Reginald’s camp, the evening of their arrival was devoted to a great merry–making, Monsieur Perrot undertaking the office of chief cook and master of the ceremonies, both of which he executed with so much skill and good–humour as to win the favour of all present. In the midst of the feasting, the security of the encampment was never endangered by the omission of due precautions; for the horses were driven in and the sentries posted, as on the preceding night, Reginald being well aware of the treacherous character of his Crow neighbours, and his suspicions aroused by the slight, but significant look given to him at parting by the youth whose life he had spared. While they were seated round a blazing fire enjoying the good cheer which Perrot had provided, Pierre, fixing his eyes upon the bear–claw collar worn by Attō, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and springing from his seat, went to examine it closer; having done so, he pronounced slowly and with emphasis a name as long as a Sanscrit patronymic. “What does that mean, Pierre?” inquired Ethelston, who had found in the latter a guide of great shrewdness and experience. “It is the name of the Upsaroka to whom that collar belonged, in our tongue, ‘The man whose path is red.’ I saw it upon his neck last year, when I was at the post near the Upper Forks. He came to trade with us for a few knives and blankets—he was a great war–chief, and had killed more Black–feet than any man in his tribe.” “Well, Pierre, his own turn has come now; he will kill no more Black–feet, nor white men either,” said Baptiste to his comrade. “Did yonder Lenapé kill him, and in fair fight, man to man?” “He was killed in fair fight, man to man; not by Attō, but by a young war–chief whom the Lenapé call Netis,” replied the guide. Pierre fixed his quick grey eye upon the athletic figure of Reginald Brandon, who coloured slightly as he encountered at the same time the glance of Paul Müller. “It is true,” he said, “I had foolishly separated myself from the rest of my party; I was intercepted in attempting to return, and only escaped paying the penalty of my carelessness by the speed of my horse. The Crow chief was better mounted than the rest of his tribe, and as soon as I paused to breathe my horse he attacked, and slightly wounded me; in defending myself, I killed him.” “My son,” observed the missionary, “he died as he had lived, reckless and brave; it rejoices me to hear you speak of the deed as one of necessity and self–preservation.” “I know not,” muttered Pierre, “what he calls necessity; but it’s a fine feather in the youth’s cap, and our Delawares shall know it too.”