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"The Delawares of the Lakes!"
"Not so. They who wear the petticoats of squaws, on their own river. One
of them has been passing the tribe."
"Did my young men take his scalp?"
"His legs were good, though his arm is better for the hoe than the
tomahawk," returned the other, pointing to the immovable form of Uncas.
Instead of manifesting any womanish curiosity to feast his eyes with the
sight of a captive from a people he was known to have so much reason to
hate, Magua continued to smoke, with the meditative air that he usually
maintained, when there was no immediate call on his cunning or his
eloquence. Although secretly amazed at the facts communicated by the
speech of the aged father, he permitted himself to ask no questions,
reserving his inquiries for a more suitable moment. It was only after a
sufficient interval that he shook the ashes from his pipe, replaced the
tomahawk, tightened his girdle, and arose, casting for the first time a
glance in the direction of the prisoner, who stood a little behind him.
The wary, though seemingly abstracted Uncas, caught a glimpse of the
movement, and turning suddenly to the light, their looks met. Near a
minute these two bold and untamed spirits stood regarding one another
steadily in the eye, neither quailing in the least before the fierce
gaze he encountered. The form of Uncas dilated, and his nostrils opened
like those of a tiger at bay; but so rigid and unyielding was his
posture, that he might easily have been converted by the imagination
into an exquisite and faultless representation of the warlike deity of
his tribe. The lineaments of the quivering features of Magua proved more
ductile; his countenance gradually lost its character of defiance in an
expression of ferocious joy, and heaving a breath from the very bottom
of his chest, he pronounced aloud the formidable name of:
"Le Cerf Agile!"
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