: "Pale face no hunt; Indian
country."

Rodney, by this time, was in a somewhat hysterical condition. The idea
that he was there for the pleasure or profit of hunting bears struck
him as so ludicrous that he laughed loudly, a performance that
evidently puzzled the redskin not a little.

The little fellow here renewed his plea, saying: "I saw him first and
I want him to play with; he's mine," and he stamped his foot like a
petty tyrant and seized Rodney by the hand, saying, "You'll play with
Louis?"

"I'll be very glad to do so," Rodney replied, looking at the Indian
rather than at the boy who tugged at his hand.

"No hunt, what for here?" the Indian asked and his voice was stern.

Rodney hesitated a moment. The red man's beady eyes, noting this,
glittered. "I'm lost," Rodney finally said, adding, "I want to get
back to the river."

"Humph!" And, having thus expressed himself, Caughnega turned to the
work of skinning and cutting up the bear, in which task Rodney
endeavoured to assist, his efforts, however, being received quite
ungraciously.

When all was done, the meat was tied into two bundles, one of which
the Indian ordered Rodney to take and walk ahead. Now, walking ahead
of a hostile savage is not a pleasant arrangement, but the boy tried
to comfort himself with the thought that, so long as the Indian might
wish the bundle carried, he would not kill the carrier. Then the
little fellow ran alongside and took the older lad's hand, an act of
confidence and friendship the latter never forgot.

They forded the creek and climbed the bank to a small plateau
overlooking a meadow through which the creek wound its way. Here, on
this high land, were clustered about twenty huts or wigwams, some
covered with skins and others with bark. As no one expected them,
their approach did not excite especial commotion, fortunately for
Rodney, otherwise he might have been compelled to run a gauntlet.

Caughnega stopped in front of one of the wigwams and motioned Rodney
to enter.

Louis protested, saying, "He is mine, I found him," but to no avail.
Disappointed, he ran away, crying bitterly, while the scowling savage
flung his prisoner into the hut, and indicated by word and gesture
that the lad was not to leave it on peril of his life. Then he stalked
away, and Rodney was left to the bitterness of his reflections.

CHAPTER VII

LISBETH WRITES FROM LONDON

From the filthy wigwam, into which Rodney Allison had been