resemblance to that
celebrated interview between Wellington and Blucher, which has been so often and
graphically told. It took place at the fire, and the parties stood earnestly
regarding each other for more than a minute without speaking. Each felt that in
the other, he saw a formidable foe, and each felt, while he ought to treat the
other with the manly liberality due to a warrior, that there was little in
common between them, in the way of character, as well as of interests. One
served for money and preferment, the other because his life had been cast in the
wilderness, and the land of his birth needed his arm and experience. The desire
of rising above his present situation, never disturbed the tranquillity of
Pathfinder, nor had he ever known an ambitious thought, as ambition usually
betrays itself, until he became acquainted with Mabel. Since then, indeed,
distrust of himself, reverence for her, and the wish to place her in a situation
above that which he then filled, had caused him some uneasy moments, but the
directness and simplicity of his character had early afforded the required
relief, and he soon came to feel, that the woman who would not hesitate to
accept him for her husband, would not scruple to share his fortunes, however
humble. He respected Sanglier as a brave warrior, and he had far too much of
that liberality which is the result of practical knowledge, to believe half of
what he had heard to his prejudice; for the most bigotted and illiberal on every
subject, are usually those who know nothing about it; but he could not approve
of his selfishness, cold blooded calculations, and least of all, the manner in
which he forgot his white gifts to adopt those that were purely red. On the
other hand, Pathfinder was a riddle to Capt. Sanglier. The latter could not
comprehend the other's motives. He had often heard of his disinterestedness,
justice and truth; and, in several instances, they had led him into grave
errors, on that principle by which a frank and open-mouthed diplomatist is said
to keep his secrets better than one that is close-mouthed and wily.
    After the two heroes had gazed at each other, in the manner mentioned, Mons.
Sanglier touched his cap, for the rudeness of a border life had not entirely
destroyed the courtesy of manner he had acquired in youth, nor extinguished that
appearance of bonhommie which seems inbred in a Frenchman.
    »Monsieur le Pathfindair,« he said, with a very decided accent, though with
a friendly smile. »Un militaire honour