er, chiefs and warriors; I will show you how great
a knave you have been keeping in your tribe."

This bold language, uttered in their own dialect and with a manner full
of confidence, produced a deep sensation among the Hurons. Treachery
is always liable to distrust, and though the recreant Briarthorn had
endeavoured to serve the enemy well, his exertions and assiduities had
gained for him little more than toleration. His wish to obtain Hist
for a wife had first induced him to betray her, and his own people, but
serious rivals to his first project had risen up among his new
friends, weakening still more their sympathies with treason. In a word,
Briarthorn had been barely permitted to remain in the Huron encampment,
where he was as closely and as jealously watched as Hist, herself,
seldom appearing before the chiefs, and sedulously keeping out of
view of Deerslayer, who, until this moment, was ignorant even of his
presence. Thus summoned, however, it was impossible to remain in the
back ground. "Wash the Iroquois paint from his face," he did not, for
when he stood in the centre of the circle, he was so disguised in these
new colours, that at first, the hunter did not recognise him. He assumed
an air of defiance, notwithstanding, and haughtily demanded what any
could say against "Briarthorn."

"Ask yourself that," continued Hist with spirit, though her manner grew
less concentrated, and there was a slight air of abstraction that became
observable to Deerslayer and Judith, if to no others-"Ask that of your
own heart, sneaking woodchuck of the Delawares; come not here with the
face of an innocent man. Go look into the spring; see the colours of
your enemies on your lying skin; then come back and boast how you run
from your tribe and took the blanket of the French for your covering!
Paint yourself as bright as the humming bird, you will still be black as
the crow!"

Hist had been so uniformly gentle, while living with the Hurons, that
they now listened to her language with surprise. As for the delinquent,
his blood boiled in his veins, and it was well for the pretty speaker
that it was not in his power to execute the revenge he burned to inflict
on her, in spite of his pretended love.

"Who wishes Briarthorn?" he sternly asked--"If this pale-face is tired
of life, if afraid of Indian torments, speak, Rivenoak; I will send him
after the warriors we have lost."

"No, chiefs--no, Rivenoak--" eagerly interrupted Hist--"Dee