"'My sister will be loved and respected in our tribe as she deserves to be,' remarked the Indian, who had hitherto smoked his pipe in silence."
"'I know it, my cousin,' she said."
"No further words passed. My grandmother began at once to pack up. Two hours later the house was empty; my grandparents had left without even shutting the door behind them. Before sunset they were making their way up the Lawrence, in the canoes of Kouha-hande."
"The river was crowded with fugitives. After a journey of four days my grandfather reached the tribe of the Hurons-Bisons, of which our relative Kouha-hande was the first sachem. Many other Canadians sought refuge in the same place, and were hospitably received by the Indians. I need say nothing more save that we have lived there ever since."
"And your grandfather?"
"Still lives, as does my father, though I have recently lost my mother and grandmother. I have a sister much younger than myself. She remains in the village to nurse my grandfather. My father is at this moment with the Hudson Bay Company."
At this moment there was a peculiar rustling in the bushes at no great distance.
"Be quiet," whispered the Canadian in the ear of his new friend, and before the other could in any way interfere with him, he seized his gun and disappeared in the high grass, crawling on his hands and knees.
Then a shot was heard.
CHAPTER IV.
AN ALLIANCE OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE
Hearing this unexpected shot, Oliver was in the act of rushing to assist his friend, whom he supposed attacked by some wild beast, when the hearty and joyous voice of the Canadian was heard.
"Don't disturb yourself, my friend," he cried, "I have only been providing our dinner."
And next minute he reappeared, carrying on his back a doe, which he hung to one of the lower branches of the magnolia, and then began to open.
"Handsome beast, is it not?" he said. "I believe the rascal was listening. He paid dear for his curiosity."
"A fine beast and cleverly killed," replied Oliver, helping to skin the animal.
"It is a pity to spoil a good skin. I am a pretty good shot, but you should see my father shoot a tiger in the eye."
"That," cried Oliver, "seems extraordinary."
"I have seen him do it twenty times, and still more difficult things," said the other. "But such deadly certainty is pure habit. We live by our guns – but to finish my story."
"Go on, my friend."
"My father was a child when we left Canada. He is now about forty-eight. My grandfather taught him to be a hunter, and to bind him to the tribe he married him when very young to a charming young Indian, a relative of Kouha-hande, and my mother in consequence. We are mere children. I am only twenty, and my sister but fifteen, lovely as the breath of dawn, and whose real name is Angela, my father's wish. But the Indians call her Evening Dew. That is all. I am a hunter. I hate the English and the North Americans, who are worse than John Bull himself, and I love the French, whose countryman I am."
"You are quite right. Few native-born Frenchmen are such strong patriots as you. But now for your name."
"Have I not told you? My name is Pierre Berger, but the Indians, in their mania for such names, call me Bright-eye, I hardly know why."
"Of course because of your admirable power of shooting."
"Well, perhaps you are right. I am a pretty good hand," said the young man, modestly. "And now, my friend, I have to add that I reached here yester evening at sundown, and that I am waiting for a friend, who will be here shortly. It is now your turn to tell me your history, unless, indeed, you have any motives for remaining silent, in which case a man's secrets are his own."
"I have no secrets, especially from you, my dear Bright-eye, and the proof is that if you will listen, I will tell you who I am and why I came into this country."
"I shall be delighted to hear your story," cried the Canadian, with evident delight.
From the very first moment when he saw the hunter and came to speak to him, Oliver felt himself attracted towards him by one of those movements of attraction or irresistible sympathy which spring from intuition of the heart.
He had therefore, during his conversation, determined if possible to make him a friend.
He thereupon told him his story in its most minute details, the Canadian listening with the most profound and sustained attention, without interrupting him by a single remark. He appeared sincerely interested in the numerous incidents of a life wretched from its commencement, and yet which the young man told frankly and simply, without bitterness, but with an impartiality which indicated the grandeur and nobility of his nature.
"Sad story, indeed," he cried, when the other had concluded; "how you must have suffered from the unjust hatred of these people! Alone in the world, without any to interest himself in you; surrounded by hostile or indifferent people; compelled to suffer from dark and insidious foes; capable of great things – young, strong, and intelligent, yet reduced to fly into the desert, and separate yourself from your fellows. Pardon if my cruel curiosity has reopened the wound which long since should have been cauterised."
He paused, keenly watching the other's face.
"Will you be my friend?" he suddenly cried. "I already feel for you an affection I can scarcely explain."
"Thanks," cried Oliver, warmly, "I accept your offer with delight."
"Then it is agreed: from henceforth we are brothers."
"I swear it," resumed Oliver.
"We shall henceforth be two to fight the battle of the world."
"I thank heaven we have met."
"Never to part again. You have no family. I will find you one, brother, and this family will love you," he added.
"Heartily accept my thanks, Bright-eye," exclaimed Oliver; "life already seems changed, and I feel as if happiness were yet possible in this world."
"There can be no doubt about it. Believe me, it depends on yourself. Look upon the past only as a dream, and think only of the future."
"I will do so," returned Oliver, with a sigh.
"And now to business. Young as I am, you will soon find that I enjoy a certain amount of reputation among the Indians and trappers. Very few would dare to attack me. I was educated in an Indian village, and, as I believe I have already told you, I am here to keep an appointment with a young Indian, my friend and relative. This Indian I now expect every moment, and I shall introduce you to him. Instead of one friend, you will have two devoted brothers. Now then," he added, laughing, "are you not fortunate?"
"I am convinced of it," said Oliver.
"When we have finished our business in these parts – and you may help us in this business – we will return to my tribe, of which you shall become a member."
"I am wholly in your hands, Bright-eye," he said; "I make no resistance. I only thank you."
"No thanks. I am useful to you today; you may be as useful, or more so, tomorrow."
"Very well. But what is the affair that detains you here, to which you just alluded?" asked Oliver.
"I must say that I do not know, though frankly I have my own suspicions. My friend has not thought proper to explain as yet, but simply gave me a rendezvous here, saying that I might prove useful. That was enough for me, and, as you see, I am here. It would be an act of indiscretion on my part to tell you anything I had not been directly told. Besides, I may be mistaken, and speak to you of a wholly different matter from the true one."
"You are quite right."
"To pass the time I will prepare supper."
"And while doing so tell what manner of man your friend is."
"He is a young man like ourselves, grandson