n no longer store up wine for
itself, the pitcher is at last serving an end it was made for."

The little hunchback glanced up again quickly. "You are talking for
my sake, monsieur, not for yourself! At your age I too could be
melancholy for amusement. Ah, pardon," for John had blushed hotly.
"Do I not know why you said it? Am I not grateful?"

He held out his hand. His eyes were shining.

CHAPTER VII.

THE WATCHER IN THE PASS.

Thenceforward, as the forest folded them deeper, John found a
wonderful solace in Bateese's company, although the two seldom
exchanged a word unless alone together, and after a day or two
Barboux took a whim to carry off the little boatman on his
expeditions and leave Muskingon in charge of the camp. He pretended
that John, as he mended of his wound, needed a stalwart fellow for
sentry; but the real reason was malice. For some reason he hated
Muskingon; and knowing Muskingon's delight in every form of the
chase, carefully thwarted it. On the other hand, it was fun to drag
off Bateese, who loved to sit by his boat and hated the killing of
animals.

"If I give him my parole," suggested John, "he will have no excuse,
and Muskingon can go in your place."

But to this Bateese would not listen. So the wounded were left, on
hunting days, in Muskingon's charge; and with him, too, John
contrived to make friends. The young Indian had a marvellous gift of
silence, and would sit brooding for hours. Perhaps he nursed his
hatred of Barboux; perhaps he distrusted the journey--for he and
Menehwehna, Ojibways both, were hundreds of miles from their own
country, which lay at the back of Lake Huron. Now and again,
however, he would unbend and teach John a few words of the Ojibway
language; or would allow him, as a fellow-sportsman, to sit by the
water's edge and study the Indian tricks of fishing.

There was one in particular which fairly amazed John. He had crawled
after Muskingon on his belly--though not understanding the need of
this caution--to the edge of a rock overhanging a deep pool.
The Indian peered over, unloosed his waist-belt, and drew off his
scarlet breeches as if for a bathe. But no, he did not intend this--
at least, not just yet. He wound the breeches about his right arm
and dipped it cautiously, bending over the ledge until his whole body
from the waist overhung the water, and it was a wonder how his thighs
kept their grip. Then, in a moment, up flew his heels an