The old scout picked up the scalp, which Long-Hair had flung at
Hamilton, and examined it with odious curiosity. He had lingered
on the spot with no other purpose than to get possession of that
ghastly relic. Since losing his own scalp the subject of
crownlocks had grown upon his mind until its fascination was
irresistible. He studied the hair of every person he saw, as a
physiognomist studies faces. He held the gruesome thing up before
him, scrutinizing it with the expression of a connoisseur who has
discovered, on a grimy canvas, the signature of an old master.
"Sac' bleu!" he presently broke forth. "Well I'll be--Look'ee yer,
George Clark! Come yer an' look. Ye've been sold ag'in. Take a
squint, ef ye please!"
Colonel Clark, with his hands crossed behind him, his face
thoughtfully contracted, was walking slowly to and fro a little
way off. He turned about when Oncle Jazon spoke.
"What now, Jazon?"
"A mighty heap right now, that's what; come yer an' let me show
ye. Yer a fine sort o' eejit, now ain't ye!"
The two men walked toward each other and met. Oncle Jazon held up
the scalp with one hand, pointing at it with the index finger of
the other.
"This here scalp come off'n Rene de Ronville's head."
"And who is he?"
"Who's he? Ye may well ax thet. He wuz a Frenchman. He wuz a fine
young feller o' this town.
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