With a movement of surprise, Captain de Haldimar turned
to examine his questioner. It was the dark and ferocious
warrior who had exhibited the scalp of his ill-fated
servant. For a moment the officer fixed his eyes firmly
and unshrinkingly on those of the savage, seeking to
reconcile the contradiction that existed between his
dress and features and the purity of the English he had
just spoken. The other saw his drift, and, impatient of
the scrutiny, again repeated, as he fiercely pulled the
strong leathern thong by which the prisoner now found
himself secured to his girdle,--

"Who and what are you?--whence come you?--and for what
purpose are you here?" Then, as if struck by some sudden
recollection, he laid his hand upon the shoulder of his
victim; and, while his eye grew upon his features, he
pursued, in a tone of vehemence,--"Ha! by Heaven, I
should know that face!--the cursed lines of the blood
of De Haldimar are stamped upon that brow! But stay, one
proof and I am satisfied." While he yet spoke he dashed
the menial hat of his captive to the earth, put aside
his hair, and then, with fiendish exultation, pursued,--"It
is even so. Do you recollect the battle of the plains of
Abraham, Captain de Haldimar?--Recollect you the French
officer who aimed so desperately at your life, and whose
object was defeated by a soldier of your regiment? I am
that officer: my victim escaped me then, but not for
ever. The hour of vengeance is nearly now arrived, and
your capture is the pledge of my success. Hark, how the
death-cry of all his hated race will ring in madness on