fired, and fired to effect, for the brave had gone over upon his
back, and sprawled and splashed among the liverwort and the bog.

Julie next fired, and when she saw, as the result of her shot, the
arm of the savage hang useless at his side, she cried--

"Bon, bon!" and cocked her pistol again.

"We must wing them, Julie," Annette said, who had her arm extended
once again. "I don't like to kill the wretches." Then came a voice
crying from the swamp, in dismal Cree--

"Don't fire any more; we won't follow the little scouts. We swear it
by the Sun, and by the God of Thunder;" and laying his hand upon his
hatchet, the terrified wretch faced the Sun and swore the oath: then
turning towards the clouds wherein the Thunder God resides, he
repeated his avowal with the same forms and solemnity of gesture.
Still Annette kept her arm extended.

"The braves talk with forked tongues, and we do not believe them,"
she replied, in the Cree language.

"But we have sworn it," the miserable savage replied, in a doleful
voice.

"False men, swearing by false gods!" Annette replied. "No; we will
not trust them. But let the braves listen. We do not want to kill
them, and have decided to wing them instead."

"Oh, oh!" groaned the poor red-skins.