probable that his
translation was neither literal nor comprehensive. Indeed, it is not
unlikely that his subsequent remark to one of his comrades,--"we told
Mozwa it was very good of him to come to meet us, an' the place would do
well enough,"--was more like the sentence to which he had reduced it.
But whatever he said Mozwa seemed to be quite pleased with it.

"By the way, Tonal', ask him about his friend Nazinred."

The serious way in which the Indian shook his head showed that he had no
good news to tell. In a short time he had related all that was known
about the sudden departure of his friend.

While Mozwa was thus engaged with the leader of the expedition, their
guide Bartong was wandering among the wigwams and making himself
agreeable to the natives, who, because of his mixed blood and linguistic
powers, regarded him as a half-brother.

"Who is this man Nazinred that our leader is always talking about?" he
asked of the old chief while seated in his tent.

"He is one of our chiefs, one of our boldest braves--"

"But not so brave as he looks," interrupted Magadar, who was present;
"he is fonder of peace than of fighting."

"Foolish man!" exclaimed Bartong, with a smile so peculiar that Magadar
did not feel quite sure that his remark was sincere. "But has he not
left your tribe? I heard our steersman say something about that."

"He left us in the winter to seek for his daughter, who was carried off
by an Eskimo and has never come back since. We don't expect to see
either of them again."

Magadar said this with a grave countenance, for, however little he cared
for the loss of the father, that of the daughter distressed him a
little--not much, however; for could he not console himself with another
wife?

Having questioned the old chief a little more on this point, he wandered
off into other subjects, and finally left--intending to visit the wife
of Nazinred on his way back to camp.

Isquay was sitting beside her niece Idazoo, embroidering a moccasin,
when Bartong entered, squatted on a deerskin unceremoniously, and began
to fill his pipe.

"What kind of a man is your husband?" asked the guide.

"A good man," replied Isquay, who was tender-hearted, and could not
speak of him without moist eyes. "He was a good hunter. None of the
young men could equal him. And he was kind. He always had plenty of
things to give me and Adolay."

"They say he did not love war," remarked Bartong.

"No; he hated