 | CHAPTER X. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Yet now there needs another name
To give the feeling which they claim,
While she the feeling gives;
She cannot call it gladness or delight;
And yet there seems a richer, lovelier light
On e'en the humblest thing that lives.
Washington Alston.
The history given by le Bourdon lasted until the canoes
reached the south shore. Glad enough was Dorothy to see
them both safe back, for neither of her companions had
yet awoke. It was then midnight, and all now retired to
seek the rest, which might be so needful to prepare them
for the exertions of the next day. The bee-hunter slept
in his canoe, while Margery shared the buffalo-skin of her
sister.
As perfect security, for the moment at least, was felt by
the sleepers, their slumbers were sound, and reached into
the morning. Then le Bourdon arose, and withdrawing
to a proper distance, he threw off his clothes and plunged
into the stream, in conformity with a daily practice of his
at that genial season of the year. After bathing, the young
man ascended a hill, whence he might get a good view of
the opposite shore, and possibly obtain some notion of
what the Pottawattamies were about. In all his movements,
however, the bee-hunter had an eye to the concealment
of his person, it being of the last importance that
the savages should not learn his position. With the intention
down, a smoke being a sign that no Indian would be likely
to overlook. As for the canoes and the bivouac of the
party, the wild rice, and an intermediate hill, formed a
perfect cover, so long as nothing was shown above them.
From the height to which he ascended, the bee-hunter,
aided by his glass, got a very clear view of Whiskey
Centre and the parts adjacent. The savages were already
stirring, and were busy in the various avocations of the
red man on a war-path. One party was disposing of the
body of their dead companion. Several were cooking, or
cleaning the wild fowl shot in the bay, while a group was
collected near the spot of the wished-for spring, reluctant
to abandon the hopes to which it had given birth, at the
very moment they were plotting to obtain the scalp of the
“medicine-man.” The beloved “fire-water,” that seduces
so many to their destruction, who have enjoyed
the advantages of moral teaching, and which has been a
withering curse on the red man of this continent, still had
its influence; and the craving appetites of several of the
drunkards of the party brought them to the spot, as soon
as their eyes opened on the new day. The bee-hunter
could see some of this cluster kneeling on the rocks, lapping
like hounds at the scattered little pools of the liquor,
while others scented around, in the hope of yet discovering
the bird that laid the golden egg. Le Bourdon had
now little expectation that his assumed character could be
maintained among these savages any longer, did accident
again throw him in their way. The chiefs, he saw, had
distrusted him all along, but had given him an opportunity
to prove what he could do, in order to satisfy the more
vulgar curiosity of their young men. He wisely determined,
therefore, to keep out of the hands of his enemies.
Although le Bourdon could hold a conversation in the
tongue of the Ojebways, he was not fond of so doing. He
comprehended without difficulty nearly all of what was
said by them, and had observed the previous night that the
warriors made many allusions to a chief, whom they styled
Onoah, but who he himself knew was usually called
Scalping Peter, among the whites of that frontier. This
savage had a fearful reputation at all the garrisons, though
of by the Pottawattamies present, as if they expected to
meet him soon, and to be governed by his commands or
his advice. The bee-hunter had paid great attention
whenever this dreaded name was mentioned, for he was
fully aware of the importance of keeping clear of an
enemy, who bore so bad a reputation, that it was not considered
prudent for a white man to remain long in his company,
even in a time of peace. His English sobriquet had
been obtained from the circumstance of its being reputed
that this chief, who seemed to belong to no tribe in particular,
while he had great influence with all, had on divers
occasions murdered the pale-faces who fell in his way, and
then scalped them. It was added, that he had already
forty notches on his pole, to note that number of scalps
taken from the hated whites. In short, this Indian, a sort
of chief by birth, though of what tribe no one exactly
knew, appeared to live only to revenge the wrongs done
his colour by the intruders, who had come from towards
the rising sun to drive his people into the great salt lake,
on the other side of the Rocky Mountains. Of course
there was a good deal that was questionable in these reports;
a rumour in the “openings” and on the prairies,
having this general resemblance to those that circulate in
towns, and in drawing-rooms, and at feasts, that no one of
them all can be relied on as rigidly exact. But le Bourdon
was still young, and had yet to learn how little of that
which we all hear is true, and how very much is false.
Nevertheless, as an Indian tradition is usually more accurate
than a white man's written history, so is a rumour of
the forest generally entitled to more respect than the
ceaseless gossipings of the beings who would be affronted
were they not accounted civilized.
The bee-hunter was still on the elevated bit of ground,
making his observations, when he was joined by Margery.
The girl appeared fresh and handsome, after a night of
sleep, and coming from her dressing-room in a thicket, and
over a stream of sweet, running water; but she was sad
and thoughtful. No sooner had le Bourdon shaken her
hand, and repeated his thanks for the succour of the past
night, than the full heart of Margery poured out its feelings,
to weep.
“Brother is awake,” she said, so soon as her sobs were
quieted by a powerful effort; “but, as is usual with him
after hard drinking, so stupid, that Dolly cannot make him
understand our danger. He tells her he has seen too
many Injins to be afraid of these, and that they will never
harm a family that has brought so much liquor into their
country.”
“His senses must be at a low ebb, truly, if he counts
on Injin friendship because he has sold fire-water to the
young men!” answered le Bourdon, with a nice understanding
of not only Indian nature, but of human nature.
“We may like the sin, Margery, while we detest the
tempter. I have never yet met with the man, pale-face
or red skin, who did not curse, in his sober moments, the
hand that fed his appetite while intoxicated.”
“I dare say that may be very true,” returned the girl,
in a low voice; “but one has need of his reason to understand
it. What will become of us now, it is hard to
say!”
“Why, now, Margery, more than yesterday, or the day
before?”
“Yesterday there were no savages near us, and Gershom
had all along told us he intended to start for the
garrison, at the head of the lake, as soon as he got back
from his visit to the openings. He is back; but not in a
state to protect his wife and sister from the red men, who
will be looking for us as soon as they can build a canoe,
or anything that will do to cross the river with.”
“Had they even a canoe,” returned le Bourdon, coolly,
“they would not know where to look for us. Thank
Heaven! that will be a job that would take some time;
nor is a bark canoe built in a minute. But, Margery, if
your brother be a little dull and heavy, after his debauch,
I am sober, and as much awake as ever I was in my life.”
“Oh! you have no weakness like that of poor brother's,
to make you otherwise; but, Bourdon, you will naturally
wish to take care of yourself and your property, and will
quit us the first good opportunity. I'm sure that we have
your interest to do so, and I do not know that I wish it.”
“Not wish it! Margery,” exclaimed the bee-hunter, in
the manner of a disappointed man. “I had supposed you
would have wished my company. But, now I know the
countrary, I shall not much care how soon I go, or into
whose hands I fall.”
It is strange how apt are those who ought to understant
one another so readily, to misinterpret each other's thoughts.
Margery had never seen the bee-hunter twenty-four hours
before, though she had often heard of him, and of his success
in his art; for the fame of a man of good reputation
and active qualities spreads far on a frontier. The very
individual whose existence would be nearly overlooked in
a crowded region, shall be spoken of, and known by his
qualities, a hundred leagues from his place of residence,
when settlements are few and far apart. In this way, Margery
had heard of Boden, or of “Bourdon,” as she called
him, in common with hundreds who, confounding his real
name with his sobriquet, made the mistake of using the
last, under the impression that it was the true appellation.
Margery had no other knowledge of French than the few
words gleaned in her slow progress along a frontier on
which, it is true, more of that language than of any other
was heard, but heard under circumstances that were not particularly
favourable to the acquisition of a foreign tongue.
Had she understood the real meaning of “Bourdon,” she would have bitten off her tongue before she would have
once called Boden by such an appellation; though the
bee-hunter himself was so accustomed to his Canadian
nick-name, as to care no hing at all about it. But Margery
did not like to give pain to any one; and, least of all,
would she desire to inflict it on the bee-hunter, though he
were only an acquaintance of a day. Still, Margery could
not muster sufficient courage to tell her new friend how
much he was mistaken, and that of all the youths she had
ever met, she would most prefer to keep him near her brother
and sister in their distress; while the young man, inspired
by a pure and infant passion, was just in the frame
of mind to believe the worst of himself, and of his claims
of his thoughts.
No explanation occurring, our young people descended
from the hill, misconceiving each other's meaning and
wishes, and unhappy under the influence of an ideal source
of misery, when actual circumstances created so many that
were substantial and real. Gershom was found awake, but,
as his sister had described him, stupid and lethargic. The
bee-hunter at once saw that, in his present condition,
Whiskey Centre would still be an incumbrance rather than
of any service, in the event of an occasion for extraordinary
exertion. Margery had hinted that it usually took twenty-four
hours to bring her brother entirely round, after one of
his serious debauches; and, within that time, it was more
than probable that the fate of the family would be decided.
Le Bourdon thought intently, during breakfast, of the
condition of his party, and of the best mode of proceeding,
while the pallid and anxious young creature at his side
believed he was deliberating solely on the best means of
extricating himself, and his store of honey, from the savages
on the other shore. Had the acquaintance between these
young people been of longer date than it actually was,
Margery could not have entertained a notion so injurious
to the bee-hunter, for a single moment; but there was nothing
either violent, or depreciating, in supposing that one
so near being a total stranger would think first of himself
and his own interests, in the situation in which this young
man was now placed.
Little was said during the meal. Dorothy was habitually
silent; the result of grief and care. As for her husband,
he was too stupid to talk, though usually somewhat garrulous;
while the Indian seldom did two things at the same
time. This was the hour for acting; when that for talking
should arrive, he would be found equal to its duties.
Pigeonswing could either abstain from food, or could indulge
in it without measure, just as occasion offered. He
had often gone for days without tasting a mouthful, with
the exception of a few berries, perhaps; and he had lain
about the camp-fire, a week at a time, gorging himself with
venison, like an anaconda. It is perhaps fortunate for the
American Indian, that this particular quality of food is so
and so common to his habits as almost to belong
to his nature. Death might otherwise often be the consequence.
When the breakfast was ended, it was time to consult
about the future course. As yet, the Pottawattamies had
made no new discovery; but the sagacity of the red man
was ever to be feared, when it came to be merely a question
of finding his foe in a forest.
“We have obtained one advantage over the enemy,”
said le Bourdon, “by crossing the river. Water leaves no
trail; even had Crowsfeather a canoe, he might not know
where to go in it, in order to find us.”
“Dat not so,” put in the Chippewa, a little dogmatically;
“know we hab canoe—know cross river in him.”
“Why should they know this, Pigeonswing? We may
have gone out upon the lake, or we may have gone up into
the oak openings again, for anything the Pottawattamies
can know to the contrary.”
“Tell you, not so. Know don't go on lake, cause wind
blow. Know don't go up river, cause dat hard work;
know come here, cause dat easy. Injin like to do what
easy, and pale-face do just what Injin do. Crowsfeather
make raft, pretty soon; den he come look arter scalp.”
“Yes,” said Margery, gently; “you had better load
your canoe at once, and go on the lake, while the savages
cannot reach you. The wind is fair for them that are to
go north; and I have heard you say that you are bound to
Mackinaw.”
“I shall load my canoe, and I shall load yours, too,
Margery; but I shall not go away from this family, so long
as any in it stand in need of my services.”
“Brother will be able to help us by afternoon. He manages
a canoe well, when himself; so go, Bourdon, while
you can. I dare say you have a mother at home; or a
sister—perhaps a wife—”
“Neither,” interrupted the bee-hunter, with emphasis.
“No one expects me; no one has a right to expect me.”
The colour stole into pretty Margery's cheeks as she
heard these words, and a ray of comfort gleamed on an
imagination that, for the last hour, had been pourtraying
idea of the bee-hunter's sacrificing himself for those who
had so few claims on him, and she could not but again admonish
him of the necessity of losing no time.
“You will think better of this, Bourdon,” the girl resumed.
“We are going south, and cannot quit the river
with this wind; but you could not have a better time to
go north, unless the wind blows harder than I think it
does.”
“The lake is a bad water for a canoe, when there is
much wind,” put in Gershom, yawning after he had spoken,
as if the effort fatigued him. “I wonder what we're all
doin' over on this side of the river! Whiskey Centre is a
good enough country for me; I'm going back to look arter
my casks, now I've breakfasted. Come, Doll; let's load
up, and be off.”
“You are not yourself, yet, Gershom,” returned the
sorrowful wife, “or you would not talk in this way. You
had better listen to the advice of Bourdon, who has done
so much for us already, and who will tell you the way to
keep out of Injin clutches. We owe our lives to Bourdon,
Gershom, and you should thank him for it.”
Whiskey Centre muttered a few half-intelligible words
of thanks, and relapsed into his state of drowsy indifference.
The bee-hunter saw, however, that the effects of
the brandy were leaving him, and he managed to get him
on one side, where he persuaded the fellow to strip and go
into the water. The bath did wonders for the poor creature,
who soon got to be so far himself, again, as to be of
use, instead of being an incumbrance. When sober, and
more especially when sober for several consecutive days,
Gershom was a man of sufficient energy, possessing originally
great personal strength and activity, which had been
essentially lessened, however, by his excesses in liquor. It
has already been stated what a different being he became,
in a moral point of view, after having been sober for any
length of time.
On his return from the bathing, le Bourdon again joined
the females. Margery had been weeping; but she smiled
in a friendly way, on meeting his eye, and appeared less
anxious for his departure than she had been an hour before.
seen, a sense of greater security began to steal over the
females, and Margery saw less necessity for the departure
of their new friend. It was true, he was losing a wind;
but the lake was rough, and after all it might be better to
wait. In short, now that no immediate danger was apparent,
Margery began to reason in conformity with her
wishes, as is so apt to be the case with the young and inexperienced.
The bee-hunter perceived this change in the
deportment of his fair friend, and was well enough disposed
to hope it would admit of a favourable construction.
All this time, the Chippewa had taken little visible interest
in the state of the party to which he had now attached
himself. The previous evening had been fertile in excitement
and in gratification, and he had since slept and ate to
his entire content. He was ready to meet events as they
might arise, and began to plot the means of obtaining more
Pottawattamie scalps. Let not the refined reader feel disgust
at this exhibition of the propensities of an American
savage. Civilized life has had, and still has very many
customs, little less excusable than that of scalping. Without
dragging into the account the thousand and one sins
that disgrace and deform society, it will be sufficient to
look into the single interest of civilized warfare, in order
to make out our case. In the first place, the noblest strategy
of the art is, to put the greatest possible force on the
least of the enemy, and to slay the weaker party by the
mere power of numbers. Then, every engine that ingenuity
can invent, is drawn into the conflict; and rockets,
revolvers, shells, and all other infernal devices, are resorted
to, in order to get the better of an enemy who is not provided
with such available means of destruction. And after
the battle is over, each side commonly claims the victory;
sometimes, because a partial success has been obtained in
a small portion of the field; sometimes, because half a
dozen horses have run away with a gun, carrying it into
the hostile ranks; and, again, because a bit of rag has
fallen from the hands of a dead man, and been picked up
by one of the opposing side. How often has it happened
that a belligerent, well practised in his art, has kept his
own colours out of the affair, and then boasted that they
expedients. His point of honour is not a bit of rag,
but a bit of his skin. He shaves his head because the
hair encumbers him; but he chivalrously leaves a scalp-lock,
by the aid of which his conqueror can the more easily
carry away the coveted trophy. The thought of cheating
in such a matter never occurs to his unsophisticated mind;
and as for leaving his “colours” in barracks, while he goes
into the field himself, he would disdain it—nay, cannot
practise it; for the obvious reason that his head would
have to be left with them.
Thus was it with Pigeonswing. He had made his toilet
for the war-path, and was fierce in his paint, but honest
and fair-dealing in other particulars. If he could terrify
his enemies by looking like a skeleton, or a demon, it was
well; his enemy would terrify him, if possible, by similar
means. But neither would dream, or did dream, of curtailing,
by a single hair, that which might be termed the
flag-staff of his scalp. If the enemy could seize it, he was
welcome to the prize; but if he could seize that of the
enemy, no scruples on the score of refinement, or delicacy,
would be apt to interfere with his movements. It was in
this spirit, then, that Pigeonswing came to the canoe, where
le Bourdon was holding a little private discourse with Margery,
and gave utterance to what was passing in his mind.
“Good time, now, get more scalp, Bourdon,” said the
Chippewa, in his clipping, sententious English.
“It is a good time, too, to keep our own, Chippewa,”
was the answer. “Your scalp-lock is too long, to be put
before Pottawattamie eyes without good looking after it.”
“Nebber mind him—if go, go; if stay, stay. Always
good for warrior to bring home scalp.”
“Yes; I know your customs in this respect, Pigeonswing;
but ours are different. We are satisfied if we can
keep out of harm's way, when we have our squaws and
pappooses with us.”
“No pappoose here,” returned the Indian, looking around
him—“dat your squaw, eh?”
The reader can readily imagine that this abrupt question
brought blushes into the cheeks of pretty Margery, making
her appear ten times more handsome than before; while
Still, the latter answered manfully, as became
his sex.
“I am not so fortunate as to have a squaw, and least of
all to have this,” said le Bourdon.
“Why no hab her—she good squaw,” returned the literal-minded
Indian—“han'some 'nough for chief. You ask;
she hab—know squaw well—always like warrior to ask him
fuss; den say, yes.”
“Ay, that may do with your red-skin squaws,” le Bourdon
hastily replied; for he saw that Margery was not only
distressed, but a little displeased—“but not with the young
women of the pale-faces. I never saw Margery before last
evening; and it takes time for a pale-face girl to know a
youth.”
“Just so wid red-skin—sometime don't know, till too
late! See plenty dat, in wigwam.”
“Then it is very much in the wigwams as it is in the
houses. I have heard this before.”
“Why not same?—skin make no difference—pale-face
spile squaw, too—make too much of her.”
“That can never be!” exclaimed le Bourdon, earnestly.
“When a pretty, modest, warm-hearted young woman accepts
a youth for a husband, he can never make enough of
her!”
On hearing sentiments so agreeable to a woman's ears,
Margery looked down, but she looked pleased. Pigeonswing
viewed the matter very differently; and being somewhat
of a partisan in matters relating to domestic economy,
he had no thought of leaving a point of so much importance
in so bad a way. Accordingly, it is not surprising
that, in pursuing the subject, he expressed opinions in several
essentials diametrically the reverse of those of the
bee-hunter.
“Easy 'nough spile squaw,” rejoined the Chippewa.
`What she good for, don't make her work? Can't go on
war-path—can't take scalp—can't shoot deer—can't hunt
—can't kill warrior—so muss work. Dat what squaw good
for.”
“That may do among red men, but we pale-faces find
squaws good for something else—we love them and take
from the heat in summer; and try to make them as comfortable
and happy as we can.”
“Dat good talk for young squaw's ear,” returned the
Chippewa, a little contemptnously as to manner; though
his real respect for the bee-hunter, of whose prowess he
had so lately been a witness, kept him a little within
bounds—“but it bess not take nobody in. What Injin
say to squaw, he do—what pale-face say, he no do.”
“Is that true, Bourdon?” demanded Margery, laughing
at the Indian's earnestness.
“I shall be honest, and own that there may be some
truth in it—for the Injin promises nothing, or next to
nothing, and it is easy to square accounts, in such cases.
That white men undertake more than they always perform,
is quite likely to be the fact. The Injin gets his advantage
in this matter, by not even thinking of treating his wife as
a woman should be treated.”
“How should treat woman?” put in Pigeonswing with
warmth. “When warrior eat venison, gib her rest, eh?
Dat no good—what you call good, den? If good hunter
husband, she get 'nough—if an't good hunter, she don't
get 'nough. Just so wid Injin—sometime hungry, sometime
full. Dat way to live!”
“Ay, that may be your red man's ways, but it is not the
manner in which we wish to treat our wives. Ask pretty
Margery, here, if she would be satisfied to wait until her
husband had eaten his dinner, and then come in for the
scraps. No—no—Pigeonswing: we feed our women and
children first, and come in last, ourselves.”
“Dat good for pappoose—he little; want venison—
squaw tough; use to wait. Do her good.”
Margery now laughed outright, at these specimens of
Indian gallantry, which only too well embody the code of
the red man's habits. Doubtless the heart has its influence
among even the most savage people, for nature has not put
into our breasts feelings and passions to be discarded by
one's own expedients, or wants. But no advocate of the
American Indian has ever yet been able to maintain that
woman fills her proper place in his estimate of claims. As
for Margery, though so long subject to the whims, passions,
the advantages of having been born in that woman's paradise,
New England. We are no great admirers of the
legacy left by the Puritan to his descendant, taken as an
inheritance in morals, manners, and customs, and as a
whole; though there are parts, in the way of codicils, that
there is no portion of the Christian world which might not
desire to emulate. In particular, do we allude to the estimate
put upon, and the treatment received by their women.
Our allusion is not to the refinements and gracefulness of
polished intercourse; for of them, the Blarney Rock of
Plymouth has transmitted but a meagre account in the inventory,
and perhaps the less that is said about this portion
of the family property the better; but, dropping a few
degrees in the social scale, and coming down to the level
where we are accustomed to regard people merely as men
and women, we greatly question if any other portion of the
world can furnish a parallel to the manly, considerate,
rational and wisely discriminating care, that the New England
husband, as the rule, bestows on his wife; the father
on his daughter; or the brother on his sister. Gershom
was a living, and, all things considered, a remarkable instance
of these creditable traits. When sober, he was uniformly
kind to Dorothy; and for Margery he would at any
time risk his life. The latter, indeed, had more power
over him than his own wife possessed, and it was her will
and her remonstrances that most frequently led him back
from the verge of that precipice over which he was so often
disposed to cast himself. By some secret link she bound
him closest to the family dwelling, and served most to recall
the days of youth and comparative innocence, when they
dwelt together beneath the paternal roof, and were equally
the objects of the affection and solicitude of the same kind
mother. His attachment to Dorothy was sincere, and, for
one so often brutalized by drink, steady; but Dorothy
could not carry him as far back, in recollections, as the
one only sister who had passed the morning of life with
him, in the same homely but comfortable abode.
We have no disposition to exaggerate the character of
those whom it is the fashion to term the American yeomen,
though why such an appellation should be applied to any
is what we could never understand. There are
no more of Esquires and Yeomen in this country than there
are of Knights and Nobles, though the quiet manner in
which the transition from the old to the new state of things
has been made, has not rendered the public mind very sensible
to the changes. But, recurring to the class, which
is a positive thing and consequently ought to have a name
of some sort or other, we do not belong to those that can
sound its praises without some large reservations on the
score of both principles and manners. Least of all, are we
disposed to set up these yeomen as a privileged class, like
certain of the titular statesmen of the country, and fall
down and worship a calf—not a golden one by the way—
of our own setting up. We can see citizens in these yeomen,
but not princes, who are to be especially favoured by
laws made to take from others to bestow on them. But,
making allowances for human infirmities, the American
freeholder belongs to a class that may justly hold up its
head among the tillers of the earth. He improves daily,
under the influence of beneficent laws, and if he don't get
spoiled, of which there is some danger, in the eagerness
of factions to secure his favour, and through that favour
his vote,—if he escape this danger, he will ere long make
a reasonably near approach to that being, which the tongue
of the flatterer would long since have persuaded him he had
already more than got to be.
To one accustomed to be treated kindly, as was the case
with Margery, the Chippewa's theory for the management
of squaws contained much to excite her mirth, as well as
her resentment, as she now made apparent by her remarks.
“You do not deserve to have a wife, Pigeonswing,” she
cried, half-laughing, yet evidently alive to the feelings of
her sex — “can have no gratitude for a wife's tenderness
and care. I wonder that a Chippewa girl can be found to
have you!”
“Don't want him,” coolly returned the Indian, making
his preparations to light his pipe — “got Winnebagoe
squaw, already; good 'nough for me. Shoot her t'other
husband and take his scalp—den she come into my wigwam.”
“The wretch!” exclaimed Margery.
But this was a word the savage did not understand, and
he continued to puff at the newly lighted tobacco, with all
of a smoker's zeal. When the fire was secured, he found
time to continue the subject.
“Yes, dat good war-path — got rifle; got wife; got two
scalp! Don't do so well, ebbery day.”
“And that woman hoes your corn, and cooks your venison?”
demanded the bee-hunter.
“Sartain—capital good to hoe—no good to cook—make
deer meat too dry. Want to be made to mind business.
Bye'm by teach him. No l'arn all at once, like pale-face
pappoose in school.”
“Pigeonswing, have you never observed the manner in
which the white man treats his squaw?”
“Sartain—see him make much of her—put her in warm
corner — wrap blanket round her — give her venison 'fore
he eat himself—see all dat, often—what den? Dat don't
make it right.”
“I give you up, Chippewa, and agree with Margery in
thinking you ought not to have a squaw, at all.”
“T'ink alike den—why no get marry?” asked the Indian,
without circumlocution.
Margery's face became red as fire; then her cheeks
settled into the colour of roses, and she looked down,
embarrassed. The bee-hunter's admiration was very apparent
to the Indian, though the girl did not dare to raise
her eyes from the ground, and so did not take heed of it.
But, this gossipping was suddenly brought to an end by a
most unexpected cause of interruption; the manner and
form of which it shall be our office to relate, in the succeeding
chapter.
| CHAPTER X. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | |