not another man in the tribe that could do that."

"I'm thankful we escaped, Jacques. I never felt so near death before,
and had it not been for the timely aid of our friend here, it strikes
me that our wild life would have come to an abrupt close.--God bless
you, Redfeather," said Charley, taking the Indian's hand in both of
his and kissing it.

Charley's ebullition of feeling was natural. He had not yet become
used to the dangers of the wilderness so as to treat them with
indifference. Jacques, on the other hand, had risked his life so
often that escape from danger was treated very much as a matter of
course, and called forth little expression of feeling. Still, it must
not be inferred from this that his nature had become callous. The
backwoodsman's frame was hard and unyielding as iron, but his heart
was as soft still as it was on the day on which he first donned the
hunting-shirt, and there was much more of tenderness than met the eye
in the squeeze that he gave Redfeather's hand on landing.

As the four travellers encircled the fire that night, under the leafy
branches of the forest, and smoked their pipes in concert, while
Wabisca busied herself in clearing away the remnants of their evening
meal, they waxed communicative, and stories, pathetic, comic, and
tragic, followed each other in rapid succession.

"Now, Redfeather," said Charley, while Jacques rose and went down to
the luggage to get more tobacco, "tell Jacques about the way in which
you got your name. I am sure he will feel deeply interested in that
story--at least I am certain that Harry Somerville and I did when you
told it to us the day we were wind-bound on Lake Winnipeg."