Although the guide said this so distinctly that Reginald heard every syllable, he was to all appearance busily engaged in throwing some dry sticks on the fire, and easing himself of the skins and the venison with which he was loaded. The Indian now took from a hollow in one of the old trees before–mentioned, a pipe, the bowl of which was of red sandstone, and the stick painted and ornamented with stained porcupine quills; he also drew out a leather bag of _kinne–kinek_[7]; and having filled and lighted his pipe, seated himself at a short distance from the fire, and gravely invited Reginald to sit on his right, and the guide on his left. As soon as they were seated, War–Eagle inhaled a large volume of smoke; and looking reverently up to the sky, sent forth a long whiff, as an offering to the Great Spirit; then simply saying, “My brother is welcome,” he passed the pipe to Reginald, and afterwards to Baptiste. For some time they smoked in silence: not a sound was heard but the crackling of the wood on the fire, and the occasional chirrup of a robin in the neighbouring bushes. This silent system not suiting Reginald’s ardent temperament, he abruptly addressed the Indian as follows:— “Has my brother come far from his people?” A cloud gathered on the chief’s brow, and the guide thought that a storm of wrath would be excited by this unlucky question; but the Indian, looking steadily upon the frank open countenance of the speaker, replied, in a voice rather melancholy than fierce, “War–Eagle has few people: the bones of his fathers are _not far_!” Our hero, anxious to dismiss a subject which seemed painful to his new friend, turned the conversation to his equipment, and observed, “My brother walks abroad without fear; he is almost without arms.” The Indian, carelessly resting his hand upon his war–club, said (speaking rather to himself, than to his companions), “It has tasted blood: ask the Dahcotahs!” “The Dahcotahs are dogs,” said the guide, angrily. “Their skins are red, but their hearts are white!” War–Eagle, turning upon him a penetrating look, continued, “Grande–Hâche is a warrior; he has smoked, has feasted, has fought among the _Lenapé_[8]; he has struck more than one Dahcotah chief. But the Grande–Hâche cannot rest: the scalp of his mother hangs in the lodge of the _Assiniboins_[9]; her spirit is unquiet in the dark hunting–ground.” The guide made no reply, but the forced compression of his lips, and the muscular contraction that passed over his sinewy frame, showed how deeply he cherished that vengeance which the Indian’s word awakened.