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"What is to be done, good chief? I have in there a white friend who saved my life; and I would like also to help the Inspector and his followers." The chief mused. "My braves follow, and will be here before the first blow is struck. Perhaps I shall be able, at the last moment, to meet the wishes of Mademoiselle."

"But there is another officer, Major Beaver, who has made amazing marches; his men, in fact, have travelled like March hares. But give me a bluff, and fifty braves, and not one of all his rash and rushing followers will get back again to Ontario to boast of their deeds of daring.

This is partly due to the force of habit, partly to superior intelligence, partly to the discretion which the agent exercises in the distribution of the government's bounty; but every year the control becomes less effectual, and agents and chiefs complain more and more that they cannot hold the young braves in check.

We stop when we kill a few of our enemies and take a few scalps; but your nations go to war in countless thousands, and we hear of more of your braves killed in one battle than all our tribe numbers together. So, my brother, do not say to us that it is wrong to go on the war-path, for what is right for the white man cannot be wrong in his red brother. I have done!"

Among these were the Museum and Public Library, the Protestant church, several orphanages and hospitals, lastly, incredible as it may seem, the beautiful octagonal tower of the Cathedral. The incidents of this vandalism have just been graphically described in the new volume of the brothers' Margueritte prose epic, dealing with the Franco-Prussian War, entitled "Les Braves Gens."

The result of it, however, showed the pursuers that they had no light task before them. The chief harangued his braves, and prepared to follow up the attack next day. The fugitives, though their losses had been only proportionate with those of their pursuers, were not in such good case. Their original numbers were less than half of their opponents.

"Flower of the open land!" he said; "the Manitou of thy race will place thee in the fields of thy fathers. The sun will shine upon thee, and the winds from beyond the salt lake will blow the clouds into the woods. A Just and Great Chief cannot shut his ear to the Good Spirit of his people. Mine calls his son to hunt among the braves that have gone on the long path; thine points another way.

I seen that one of the braves left to guard me was the young feller I had wounded the year before. He never took no notice of me. In the gray of the early mornin' when all were asleep and the other watch dozin' I felt cold steel between my wrists and my buckskin thongs dropped off. Then my feet were cut loose. I looked round and in the dim light I seen my young brave.

That evening in sudden brawl and in plain view of Mr. McPhail, the agent, one of Red Dog's braves stabbed to the heart the lover of a Brulé girl whom he had affronted. "Arrest him!" ordered McPhail, who then turned and ran in-doors, after his pistol, as he said, possibly forgetting that it was already on his hip.

The shadows were deepening; the flames had revealed other dark figures, eight braves at the heels of the spokesman, all painted, all armed, all visibly mollified by the aspect that the dialogue had taken on, that of an interpreting female for a French husband. "What do Choté old town?" demanded the chief. "Buy furs," said Odalie at a venture, pointing at her husband.