The slightest possible twitch at one corner of
Petawanaquat's mouth showed that he had observed the movement, but his
brow did not relax as he said--

"Tonyquat must make his red father a promise. White men are coming
here. They travel towards the setting sun. If they hear the voice of
Tonyquat they will take him away."

"Will they take me to my own father?" cried Tony, forgetting his role in
the excitement of the moment.

"Petawanaquat has said that the white strangers travel towards the
setting sun. Red River lies in the direction of the rising sun. Would
Tonyquat like to go with white strangers into the mountains?"

Tony was most emphatic in his denial of entertaining any such desire,
and declared with his wonted candour that he loved Petawanaquat and
Meekeye next to his own father and mother.

"If this be so," returned the Indian, "Tonyquat must be dumb when the
white men speak to him. He must know nothing. His voice must be more
silent than the waters of a lake when the wind is dead."

Tony promised to be as dumb as a stone, as ignorant as a new-born
infant, and as quiet as a dead man. He then questioned the Indian about
the white men, but obtained no further information than that
Petawanaquat had come on their camp unexpectedly the day before, had
observed them secretly from among the bushes, knew that the route they
were pursuing would infallibly lead them to his wigwam, and that
therefore he had hurried home to be ready for them. He could not tell
who the white men were. They looked like traders--that was all he knew,
or, at least, chose to communicate.

That night Meekeye repainted Tony's neck and face with considerable
care; dyed his luxuriant hair with grease and charcoal; touched up his
eyebrows with the same, and caused him to dirty his hands effectively
with mud and ashes.

Next morning, a little after sunrise, the twinkle of bells, the yelping
of dogs, and the cracking of whips were heard. Petawanaquat and Tony
had just time to step out of the tent when a cariole, somewhat in the
form of a slipper-bath, drawn by four dogs, dashed up to the door. The
dogs, being fresh and young, took to fighting. Their driver, who wore a
head-dress with horns, belaboured the combatants and abused them in
French, while a tall, quiet-looking man arose from the furs of the
cariole, and, mounting the slope on which the Indian stood to receive
him, advanced towards the wigwam. Some minutes later another