“His memory is better than yours, Master Reginald. He and his brother were two of the leading warriors in that unfortunate affair where St. Clair was beat by the Ingians, upon the north fork of the Miami. I was there, too, and the ‘Doctor’s’ pills did some service—but not much to signify, neither. Colonel Brandon did all that man could do, but at last he was forced back. Well, that Tarhé and his brother, first in the pursuit, killed two of our poor fellows, and were scalping ‘em, when the Colonel called out to ‘em, and fired. He killed Tarhé’s brother dead. I see’d it all; and I took a long squint with the Doctor at Tarhé, which only lamed his arm a bit; for, you see, Master Reginald, I was a long ways off; and a chap don’t shoot quite so fine when he’s a retreatin’ double–quick, with a few hundred red–skins yellin’ in his rear. However, that Tarhé has been more than once down at Marietta, and round the neighbours’ clearins; and he knowed you, Master Reginald, just as well as a Kentucky hog knows an acorn.” “Now I understand it, so far, Baptiste. But if the fellow wanted to take my life, why did he not hide in the laurel–thicket, and shoot me as I passed? Why did he make the attempt where my death was sure to be revenged?” “Now, Master Reginald, you are asking a poor ignorant crittur,—who knows nought but a little huntin’, and, may be, knows a beaver–skin from a buffalo–hide,—all the ins and outs of a red Ingian’s crooked mind! May be, he wanted to force War–Eagle into shedding white man’s blood. I saw that one of those Shawanons was up to his game; and if a general skrimmage had come, they’d have tried to do for me. Or, perhaps, when he found his knife so convenient to the back of your neck, he couldn’t lose the chance, for the bad spirit had got hold of him.” “By heavens!” cried Reginald, “I never can sufficiently admire the quickness, and the heroic courage of that boy, Wingenund! Did you see, Baptiste, how he drew that great knife _slowly_ out of his wounded arm; and how all the time he smiled upon War–Eagle, as if to show him that he despised the pain?” “He is a brave youth,” said the guide. “I know the stock he comes from: if he were a coward, the grisly bear might breed sheep!” “Pray tell me something of his parents, and of his story. Is he related to War–Eagle?” “He is,” said the guide. “They are the children of two brothers. War–Eagle of the eldest; Wingenund of the youngest.” “Are these two brothers alive, Baptiste?” “No: both were murdered by the white men, in time of peace, without provocation. There was a third brother, who, happening to be absent from the village on a hunt, escaped. He has now gone to the far west, beyond the great river. Both the War–Eagle and the boy are called his sons; and the latter, as he told us to–day, lives in his lodge.” “Then all these three brothers were the children of Wingenund?” “Yes.” “And who was he?”