Redfeather made no reply for a few seconds. "Will Mr. Charles speak
for me?" he said at length. "His tongue is smooth and quick."

"A doubtful kind of compliment," said Charley, laughing; "but I will,
if you don't wish to tell it yourself."

"And don't mention names. Do not let him know that you speak of me or
my friends," said the Indian, in a low whisper, as Jacques returned
and sat down by the fire again.

Charley gave him a glance of surprise; but being prevented from
asking questions, he nodded in reply, and proceeded to relate to his
friend the story that has been recounted in a previous chapter.
Redfeather leaned back against a tree, and appeared to listen
intently.

Charley's powers of description were by no means inconsiderable, and
the backwoodsman's face assumed a look of good-humoured attention as
the story proceeded. But when the narrator went on to tell of the
meditated attack and the midnight march, his interest was aroused,
the pipe which he had been smoking was allowed to go out, and he
gazed at his young friend with the most earnest attention. It was
evident that the hunter's spirit entered with deep sympathy into such
scenes; and when Charley described the attack, and the death of the
trapper's wife, Jacques seemed unable to restrain his feelings. He
leaned his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, and
groaned aloud.

"Mr. Charles," he said, in a deep voice, when the story was ended,