f 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."

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,
"there are two men I would like to meet with in this world before I die:
one is the young Injin who tried to save that girl's life, the other is
the cowardly villain that took it. I don't mean the one who finished
the bloody work; my rifle sent his accursed spirit to its own place--"

"_Your_ rifle!" cried Charley, in amazement.

"Ay, mine! It was _my_ wife who was butchered by these savage dogs on
that dark night. Oh, what avails the strength o' that right arm!" said
Jacques bitterly, as he lifted up his clenched fist; "it was po