Of this explosion of ill-temper Roland took no notice, until he had, with the assistance of Emperor, the negro, effected a safe passage for Edith over the puddle; in the course of which he had leisure to observe that the path now struck into a wide buffalo-street, that swept away through a wilderness of wood and cane-brake, in nearly a straight line, for a considerable distance.  He observed, also, that the road looked drier and less broken than usual; his satisfaction at which had the good effect of materially abating the rage into which he had been thrown by the uncivil bearing of the guide.  Nevertheless, he had no sooner brought his kinswoman safely to land, than, leaving her in the charge of Emperor, he galloped up to the side of his conductor, and gave vent to his indignation in the following pithy query:—­

“My friend,” said he, “will you have the goodness to inform me whether you have ever lived in a land where courtesy to strangers and kindness and respect to women are ranked among the virtues of manhood?”

The man replied only by a fierce and angry stare; and plying the ribs of his horse with his heels, he dashed onwards.  But Roland kept at his side, not doubting that a little more wholesome reproof would be of profit to the man, as well as advantageous to his own interests.

“I ask that question,” he continued, “because a man from such a land, seeing strangers, and one of them a female, struggling in a bog, would, instead of standing upon dry land, making disrespectful remarks, have done his best to help them through it.”

“Strannger,” said the man, drawing up his horse, and looking, notwithstanding his anger, as if he felt the rebuke to be in a measure just, “I am neither hog nor dog, Injun nor outlandish niggur, but a man—­a man, strannger! outside and inside, in flesh, blood, and spirit, jest as my Maker made me; though thar may be something of the scale-bark and parsimmon about me, I’ll not deny; for I’ve heer’d on it before.  I axes the lady’s pardon, if I’ve offended:  and thar’s the eend on’t.”

“The end of it,” said Forrester, “will be much more satisfactory, if you give no further occasion for complaint.  But now,” he continued, Edith drawing nigh, “let us ride on and as fast as you like; for the road seems both open and good.”

“Strannger,” said the guide, without budging an inch, “you have axed me a question; and, according to the fa’r rule of the woods, it’s my right to ax you another.”

“Very well,” said Roland, assenting to the justice of the rule; “ask it, and he brief.”

“What you war saying of the road is true; thar it goes, wide, open, cl’ar, and straight, with as good a fence on both sides of it to keep in stragglers, as war ever made of ash, oak, or chestnut rails,—­though it’s nothing but a natteral bank of cane-brake:  and so it runs, jest as cl’ar and wide, all the way to the river.”

“I am glad to hear it,” was the soldier’s reply; “but now for your question?”