“Brother,” commenced The Weasel, placing himself directly in front of the corporal, “I am about to speak to you.  A wise warrior opens his ears, when he hears the voice of his enemy.  He may learn something it will be good for him to know.  It will be good for you to know what I am about to say.

“Brother, you are a pale-face, and we are Injins.  You wish to get our hunting-grounds, and we wish to keep them.  To keep them, it has become necessary to take your scalp.  I hope you are ready to let us have it.”

The corporal had but an indifferent knowledge of the Indian language, but he comprehended all that was uttered on this occasion.  Interest quickened his faculties, and no part of what was said was lost.  The gentle, slow, deliberate manner in which The Weasel delivered himself, contributed to his means of understanding.  He was fortunately prepared for what her heard, and the announcement of his approaching fate did not disturb him to the degree of betraying weakness.  This last was a triumph in which the Indians delighted, though they ever showed the most profound respect for such of their victims as manifested a manly fortitude.  It was necessary to reply, which the corporal did in English, knowing that several present could interpret his words.  With a view to render this the more easy, he spoke in fragments of sentences, and with great deliberation.

“Injins,” returned the corporal, “you surrounded me, and I have been taken prisoner—­had there been a platoon on us, you mightn’t have made out quite so well.  It’s no great victory for three hundred warriors to overcome a single man.  I count Parson Amen as worse than nothing, for he looked to neither rear nor flank.  If I could have half an hour’s work upon you, with only half of our late company, I think we should lower your conceit.  But that is impossible, and so you may do just what you please with me.  I ask no favors.”

Although this answer was very imperfectly translated, it awakened a good deal of admiration.  A man who could look death so closely in the face, with so much steadiness, became a sort of hero in Indian eyes; and with the North American savage, fortitude is a virtue not inferior to courage.  Murmurs of approbation were heard, and Ungque was privately requested to urge the captive further, in order to see how far present appearances were likely to be maintained.

“Brother, I have said that we are Injins,” resumed The Weasel, with an air so humble, and a voice so meek, that a stranger might have supposed he was consoling, instead of endeavoring to intimidate, the prisoner.  “It is true.  We are nothing but poor, ignorant Injins.  We can only torment our prisoners after Injin fashion.  If we were pale-faces, we might do better.  We did not torment the medicine-priest.  We were afraid he would laugh at our mistakes.  He knew a great deal.  We know but little.  We do as well as we know how.