Henry, as white as a sheet, could only point at the tall Indian, who, standing¹ motionless, was gazing as intently at the boys.

He made one step forward, and Henry thought he was about to be killed and scalped forthwith.

“Oh, Mr. Indian Chief,” he exclaimed, in tremulous accents, “don't kill me! I—I ain't ready to die!”

The Indian looked amazed, and laughed gutturally, but did not speak. His laugh increased Henry's dismay.

“I've got a revolver. I'll give it to you if you won't kill me,” continued Henry.

Then the Indian spoke².

“Why should I kill white boy?” he asked in a mild tone, which ought to have convinced Henry that he had nothing to fear.

But the boy was so frenzied³ with terror, and so possessed⁴ of the thought that the Indian was just like the savage⁵ warriors⁶ of the plains, of whom he had read so much, that he still felt his life to be in danger, and answered the question in a way not expected.

“I suppose you want my scalp,” he said; “but I am only a boy, and I don't mean any harm. I hope you'll spare my life.”

Another fit of guttural laughter from the Indian, which perplexed⁷ Henry, and after a pause he said:

“Me no want white boy's scalp! Me good Indian!”

An immense burden seemed lifted from poor Henry's breast.

“Then you don't want to kill me?” he said.

“No!”

“Then why do you come here?”

“Me live here.”

The secret was out—a secret which Philip had suspected from the first, though Henry had not dreamed of it.

They had lain down in the Indian's cabin, appropriating his blanket, and were simply intruders.

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