Meantime, the industrious lad had broiled his venison steaks, and having gathered some broad leaves, which served on this occasion for plates, he brought the first slice to Reginald, the second to Baptiste, the next to War–Eagle, and so on, until he went through the party; after which, without tasting anything himself, he took his station close to his chief and his new friend. During the meal, the Indian last arrived talked much in a suppressed voice to the one next to him, and seemed studiously to avert his eyes from his chief and the two white men. “Tarhé,” said War–Eagle, addressing him, “is there not _tassmanané_[11] for the stranger? he is my brother, and his path has been long.” Tarhé went to his “câche,” a spot not many yards distant, and taking out two or three small cakes, brought them round behind his chief, and offered one to our hero, who was in the act of receiving it, when the miscreant, drawing the knife from his girdle, aimed a blow at the back of the unsuspecting Reginald. Nothing could have saved him from instant death, had not the gallant boy thrown himself between the savage and his victim. The knife went through his arm; and so deadly was the force by which it was guided, that it still descended, and inflicted a slight scratch on Reginald’s shoulder. War–Eagle sprang like a tiger from the ground, and with one blow of his tremendous war–club dashed the ruffian to the earth; then turning suddenly his angry glance upon the two other Indians, he asked if they had any part in Tarhé’s plot. Neither had stirred from their seat, and both declared they had known nothing of his intention. It was well for them that the chief believed them, for this act of vile treachery had aroused all the slumbering fire within him, and the veins started like blue cords upon his temples. Reginald’s first impulse, when he jumped upon his feet, was to hasten to the wounded youth, whose features were now lighted up by a smile of happiness. “Tell me, my brave, generous boy, are you much hurt?” “No,” said he, “I should have been hurt if the War–Eagle’s camp had been stained with the blood of his white brother.” The sturdy guide himself could not repress his admiration of this gallant boy’s conduct, who now stood looking intently upon War–Eagle, his features animated by excitement and by pride, and the knife still fixed up to the very handle in his arm, “War–Eagle,” said Baptiste, “the Lenapé are men,—their boys are warriors: that dog is not a Lenapé,” added he, pointing to the prostrate body of Tarhé. “_Tah–Delamattenos_[12],” said the chief indignantly. The youth now moving a step forward, came before his chief with an air of modest dignity, and slowly drew the reeking knife from his arm, while a stream of blood gushed from the wound; not a muscle of his frame trembled, not a feature varied its expression, as he said, in a voice of musical gentleness, “War–Eagle, will Wingenund allow his grandson now to bear his name?”