he Spaniard--raising it only to glance
anxiously at the sky; where the moon held on her ordinary course over
the starry blue.

"So be it," said Pepe; "but, stay! we killed first five Indians, then
three, that makes eight; there should have been twelve left; why did we
only count ten in the water? Depend upon it, the Blackbird has sent the
two others to seek for reinforcements."

"It is possible: to remain here or to fly are both terrible."

For some time the hunters thus continued to deliberate; meanwhile the
moonbeams began to fall more obliquely, and already a part of the tops
of the trees were in shadow. More than an hour had elapsed since the
attempt of the Indians, and Pepe, less absorbed than Bois-Rose, was
watching anxiously.

"That cursed moon will never go down," said he, "and it seems to me that
I hear something like the noise of feet in the water; the buffaloes do
not come down to drink at this time of night."

So saying, he rose and leaning right and left, looked up and down the
stream, but on each side extended an impenetrable veil of fog. The
coolness of the American nights which succeeds the burning heat of the
day, condenses thus in thick clouds the exhalations of the ground, and
of the waters heated by the sun.

"I can see nothing but fog," said he.

Little by little the vague sounds died away, and the air recovered its
habitual cairn and silence. The moon was fast going down, and all
nature seemed sleeping, when the occupants of the island started up in
terror.

From both sides of the river rose shouts so piercing that the banks
echoed them long after the mouths that uttered them were closed.
Henceforth flight was impossible; the Indians had encompassed the
island.

"The moon may go down now," cried Pepe with rage. "Ah! with reason I
feared the two absent men, and the noises that I heard; it was the
Indians who were gaining the opposite bank. Who knows how many enemies
we have around us now?"

"What matter," replied Bois-Rose gloomily, "whether there are one
hundred vultures to tear our bodies, or a hundred Indians to howl round
us when we are dead?"

"It is true that the number matters little in such circumstances, but it
will be a day of triumph for them."

"Are you going to sing your death-song like them, who, when tied to the
stake, recall the number of scalps they have taken?"

"And why not? it is a very good custom, it helps one to die like a hero,
and to remember that you