The aged woman, who to this moment had preserved a prudent silence, judged it was now time to take part in the conversation. "I am thankful to the chief," she said; "but since he is good enough to take interest in our welfare, will he permit me to ask him a favour?" "Let my mother speak; my ears are open." "I have a son who is a great white hunter; he must at this moment be in the prairie; perhaps, if my brother would consent to keep us a few days longer with him, it would be possible to meet with him; under his protection we should have nothing to fear." At these imprudent words the Spaniard made a gesture of terror. "Señorita!" he said sharply in his native language, "take care lest----" "Silence!" the Indian interrupted in an angry tone; "why does my white brother speak before me in an unknown tongue? Does he fear I should understand his words?" "Oh, chief!" said the Spaniard, in a tone of denial. "Let my brother, then, allow my palefaced mother to speak; she is speaking to a chief." The old man was silent, but a sad presentiment weighed upon his heart. The Comanche chief knew perfectly well to whom he was speaking; he was playing with the two Spaniards, as a cat does with a mouse; but, allowing none of his impressions to appear, he turned towards the woman, and bowing with that instinctive courtesy which distinguishes the Indians, said in a mild voice, and with a sympathetic smile,-- "Oh! oh! the son of my mother is a great hunter, is he? So much the better." The heart of the poor woman dilated with joy. "Yes," she said, with emotion, "he is one of the bravest trappers on the Western prairies." "_Wah!_" said the chief, in a still more amiable manner, "this renowned warrior must have a name respected through the prairies?" The Spaniard suffered a martyrdom; held in awe by the eye of the Comanche, he did not know how to warn his mistress not to pronounce the name of her son. "His name is well known," said the woman. "Oh!" the old man cried eagerly, "all women are thus; with them all their sons are heroes: this one, although an excellent young man, is no better than others; certes, his name has never reached my brother." "How does my brother know that?" said the Indian, with a sardonic smile. "I suppose so," the old man replied; "or, at least, if by chance my brother has heard it pronounced, it must long ago have escaped his memory, and does not merit being recalled to it. If my brother will permit us, we will retire; the day has been fatiguing; the hour of repose is come." "In an instant," said the Comanche quietly; and turning to the woman, "What is the name of the warrior of the palefaces?" he asked, in a peremptory tone. But the old lady, placed upon her guard by the intervention of her servant, with whose prudence and devotion she was well acquainted, made no answer, conscious that she had committed a fault, and not knowing how to remedy it. "Does not my mother hear me?" said the chief.