“This is then,” said our hero to himself, “the cause of that fierce unextinguishable hate which Baptiste has always borne to these Sioux; I cannot wonder at it.” Reginald continued, however, his conversation respecting his new friend’s equipment, in the same tone: “My brother’s war–club is strong, and that iron spike in its head is sharp; but the rifle kills from far, and the white men are not all friends to him.” “War–Eagle has ears and eyes; he can see snakes in the grass,” was the calm reply. “Nay, but my brother is careless,” said Reginald laughing; “Grande–Hâche, as you call him, and I are two men, both strong and armed with rifles: if we were not his brothers, the War–Eagle would be in danger.” “The bad Spirit made the thick water and the horses too strong for War–Eagle,” said the latter, referring to the morning’s accident, “but he could not be hurt by his brother’s rifle.” “And why so?” demanded Reginald. “Because,” said the Indian, “the white warrior has smoked, has taken his brother’s gift, and the Great Spirit has written on his face that he cannot speak lies.” “You are right, my brave friend,” said Reginald (not a little gratified by the untutored compliment); “but if you fall in with white men who carry rifles, and who _do_ speak lies—how fares it with you then?” “War–Eagle is always ready,” said he, in the same unmoved tone; “the Grande–Hâche is a great warrior—my brother will take many scalps; yet _if_ their tongues were forked—_if_ their hearts were bad—both would die where they now sit—they have neither ears nor eyes—but the Lenapé is a chief, they are as safe here as in the great white village.” Though inwardly nettled at this taunt, which he felt to be not altogether undeserved, the guide took no other notice of it than to strain to the utmost those organs of sight and hearing which the red–skin had held so cheap, but in vain: the forest around them seemed wrapt in solitude and silence; the eyes of Reginald, however, served him better on this occasion. “By heaven, the Indian speaks truth,” said he; “I see them plainly—one, two, three! and we, Baptiste, are at their mercy.” This he spoke in French, and the guide answered in the same language: “Do you see Indians, Master Reginald, where I can see naught but trees, and logs, and grass; if it is so—I am an owl, and no hunter!” “Glance your eye,” said our hero, calmly, “to yon old fallen log, that lies fifty or sixty yards to your right, there are three small parallel lines visible there,—they are three gun–barrels; the sun shone on them a minute since, and their muzzles are directed full upon us.” “It is true; your eyes are younger than mine, I suppose,” said the guide, apparently more disconcerted at that circumstance than at the imminent peril of their situation; he added, in a low, determined tone, “but they must shoot very true, if they wish to prevent me from taking this deep and deceitful villain with me on the long journey.”