One man among them
seemed to wear the cloak of civilisation,--Negansahima the chief.
"Then one day at dusk,--it was a soft day, gold and sweet, M'sieu, and
soft, with all the post at the great gate watching the Indians,--there
were many,--four or five hundred warriors and as many women and
children,--this day there was,--a tragedy. Something happened,--a
trifle."
The girl stopped a moment and a sigh caught her breath.
"Just a trifle--but two men fought at the gate, the factor and another
--a Nor'wester from the Saskatchewan,--a long-haired venturer,--a man
from Montreal, but a brave man, M'sieu, oh, a very brave man! They
fought and there was the discharge of a pistol,--and--the shot went
wild. It slew the good chief, M'sieu. There was uproar,--they swarmed
upon the two and bound them."
Maren's eyes were growing large with the remembered excitement of that
moment.
The tall Irishman was watching her keenly.
"They bound them and struck away to the north, taking them along, and
the burden of their cry was, 'A skin for a skin!'
"They brought them so far,--they would have reached their own country
but for a band of Bois-Brules, who joined them some suns back with that
red liquor whose touch is hell to an Indian.
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