Front matter (continued 4)

"Jean," he said, "I am about to disclose to you a secret—which is not a secret, because every trader who works for himself is acquainted with it."

He flipped through the pages.

"Here is the account for this post for the year just ended. We handled a total of 204 'green' deerskins and 23 packets of various kinds of furs. On these we cleared a profit of 2,382 livres, 3 sols, 9 deniers,[1] which would not come anywhere near covering the operating expenses of the post. You will find the same story at every post from here to the Mississippi."

"Why, monsieur?"

"These sacré English! First they turn the Iroquois against us—and in that success, I am bound to say, they have been ably assisted by ourselves;[2] then they build the post of Fort Oswego, at the foot of the Onondaga's River on Irondequoit Bay;[3] then they send out a swarm of young men to trap and shoot in the Indian country; then they pass this accursed law that forbids us obtaining Indian goods from the New York merchants! Peste, what a people! They have us in a noose."

I shook my head dolefully.

"Ah, monsieur, you make me very sorrowful," I said. "I came out to Canada thinking to make my fortune, but if what you say be true, I am more likely to be killed by the English."

"No, no, it's not so bad as that," he answered quickly. "The governor-general has waked up. It seems that in France they are not quite ready for another war, but we are charged to make preparations as rapidly as possible. There is an emissary coming soon from Paris, who will have instructions for the frontier posts and the friendly Indians. It may be we can persuade the English to be stupid enough to revoke this law of theirs. In any case, my Jean, you will have heard of the Doom Trail?"

I crossed myself devoutly.

"I have heard nothing good of it, monsieur," I said fearfully.

"Humph; I don't doubt it. And mind you, Jean, for myself, I do not like that kind of business. But after all 'tis the trade over the Doom Trail which keeps you and me in our jobs. Without it—well, this post would shut down. And they do say at Quebec that if we can start a revolution in England for this Pretender of theirs and war at the same time, we shall be able to take the whole continent from them."

"And who is this emissary you spoke of?" I asked, thinking to extract more information from the bibulous Joncaire.

"Not of your——"

There was a commotion at the door.

"Bind the Indian," shouted a voice in French. "Hah, I thought so! We meet again, Ormerod!"

De Veulle stood on the threshold, his rifle leveled at my breast.

"Bring the Indian inside here," he called behind him. "We'll have a look at him in the light."

A group of Cahnuagas, frightfully painted, with their grotesque bristling feather headdresses, hustled Ta-wan-ne-ars into the room.

But now Joncaire asserted himself.

"What do you mean by this, Monsieur de Veulle?" he demanded with a cold displeasure which showed no signs of his recent indulgences. "This man is a forest-runner, Jean Courbevoir, a messenger from de Tonty. The Indian is a Messesague—as you should see by his paint and bead-work."

"Bah!" sneered de Veulle. "They fooled you. The Indian is Ta-wan-ne-ars, of the Seneca Wolves, War Chief of the Iroquois. The white man is Harry Ormerod, an English spy and a deserter from the Jacobites. He was stationed in Paris for some years, and recently was sent to New York. Burnet, the Governor of New York, dispatched him here to spy out what you were doing. 'Twas fortunate I had an errand to Jagara, for he seems to have deluded you completely."

"That may be so," assented Joncaire; "but it happens that I command here. These men are my prisoners. You will order your Indians from the room. François, get your musket and stand guard."

De Veulle drew a paper from a pocket inside his leather shirt and presented it to Joncaire with irritating deliberation.

"Here," he said, "you will find my warrant from the King himself to exercise what powers I deem necessary along the frontier. Only the governor-general may overrule me."

Joncaire studied the paper.

"That is so," he admitted. "But I tell you this, de Veulle, you have a bad record on the frontier for a trouble-maker. But for you I should have had the Senecas and Onondagas in our interest before this. I write to Quebec by the first post, demanding a check upon your activities. We have too much at stake to permit you to jeopardize it."

"At De-o-nun-de-ga-a it is known that Ta-wan-ne-ars and his brother Ormerod journeyed to Jagara," interposed the Seneca in his own language. "Does Joncaire think the Senecas will be quiet when one of their chiefs is given up to the Keepers of the Doom Trail for torment?"

"The Senecas will be told that you never reached Jagara," replied de Veulle before Joncaire could speak.

"I will have nothing to do with it," declared the commandant of the post. "Spies they may be, and as such they may be imprisoned; but I will have nothing to do with turning them over to the Keepers. De Veulle, this is on your own head."

"I am content," said de Veulle with a mocking smile.

Joncaire turned to me.

"Well, my Jean," he said soberly, "whatever your name may be, you have gotten yourself into a nasty mess. You will be lucky if you die quickly. This is what comes of trying to fool old Papa Joncaire."

"You will admit that I fooled you," I replied as lightly as I could.

"You did," he conceded, "and you are nearly the first."

"Will you do me a favor in memory of Arles—I have really visited that renowned city—monsieur?"

"Gladly."

"Get word sometime to Peter Corlaer that I fooled you, and 'twas no fault of mine I was taken."

He clapped me on the back.

"That's the spirit, mon brave! I'll do it without fail. And my advice to you is to pick the first chance to die, no matter how it may be. These Keepers—peste! They are a bad lot. They are artists in torment. 'Tis part of their religion, which I will say they still practise, even though Père Hyacinthe were to excommunicate me."

"Better not let the worthy priest hear you," admonished de Veulle with his mocking smile. "Have you finished your homily and last word to the condemned?"

"I have finished my last word to you," snarled Joncaire.

"Perhaps, monsieur," I said, "you have never chanced to hear of a certain duel with small-swords in the ——"

De Veulle struck me with all his strength across the mouth.

"Here," he called to the waiting Cahnuagas, "bind him—and make a sure job of it. Be not careful of his comfort."

Joncaire looked him up and down with indescribable contempt.

"There is a bad air in here, Monsieur Englishman," he said. "Even the company of that ass de Lery is preferable to this miserable person. I bid you adieu."

But as he was about to climb the stairs de Lery had ascended, de Veulle called him back.

"One moment! Speaking officially, Monsieur de Joncaire, I desire you to send out belts to all friendly tribes, summoning them to a council-fire which will be held here by the King's command in August."

Joncaire bowed.

"It shall be done," he said.

"Now then"—de Veulle addressed me—"we will consider your case. Are the bonds sufficiently tight?"

I had been bound with strips of rawhide which cut into every muscle. The question was superfluous.

"Pick them up," he said to the Cahnuagas. "We will get back to the canoes."

One of the Keepers objected, seeming to suggest that they rest the night at least; but de Veulle silenced him with a frown.

"We start at once," he said. "There will be time to rest after we are out in the lake."

Ta-wan-ne-ars and I were slung like sacks of grain each upon the shoulders of a pair of warriors and so carried past several phlegmatically interested French soldiers to the bank of the river. Here we were laid carefully in the bottoms of separate canoes, which were shoved out into the swirling current and borne swiftly down-stream into the spreading waters of the Cadarakui Lake.

Despite the tightness of my bonds and the numbness they induced, I fell asleep, rocked by the easy motion of the canoe as it was driven along by the powerful arms of the Cahnuagas, who crouched in line, one behind the other, their paddles dipping in and out of the water like tireless machines.

XVII LA VIERGE DU BOIS

A dash of water awakened me. One of the Cahnuagas was leaning down, his hideous face close to mine, his fingers wrestling with the knots in the rawhide bonds.

"You can not lie idle, my distinguished guest," called de Veulle from his place at the stern. "You must keep us dry."

As the rawhide strips were unwound I was able to sit up and look over the frail bark side. We were out of sight of land, and a moderate breeze was raising a slight swell, the crest of which occasionally broke over our bow. In the other canoe Ta-wan-ne-ars already was at work with a bark scoop.

The Cahnuagas were uneasy, and at times they muttered amongst themselves; but de Veulle kept them at the paddles, working in relays of four. It said much for his hold on the Indians that he was able to persuade them to navigate the treacherous waters of the open lake, a feat the savages will never attempt except under compulsion.

All of that day we were isolated on the restless surface of the huge inland sea. Just before dusk of the second day we sighted a rocky coast, and sheered away from it. Two nights later we passed a group of lights to the north, and the Cahnuagas murmured "Cadaraqui." Indeed, 'twas the French fort of that name, the key to the westerly defenses of Canada and the St. Lawrence outlet from the lake.[1] On the sixth day we passed out of the lake into the narrow channel of the great river, and landed in the evening at a palisaded post on the southern bank.

So far I had been treated fairly well. My captors had shared with me their meager fare of parched corn and jerked meat; and if I had been compelled to bale out the canoe incessantly, it was equally true that they had labored at the paddles night and day. It was also true that de Veulle had made me the constant subject of his gibes and kicks and had encouraged the Cahnuagas—and God knows they required no encouragement—to maul me at pleasure. Yet the frailty of the canoe had forbidden indulgence in as much roughness as they desired.

But now everything was changed. My legs were left unbound, but with uncanny skill the savages lashed back my arms until well-nigh every bit of circulation was stopped in them and each movement I was forced to make became an act of torture. The one recompense for my sufferings was that for the first time since our capture I had the company of Ta-wan-ne-ars, and I was able to profit by his stoical demeanor in resisting the impulse to vent my anger against de Veulle.

"Say nothing, brother," he counseled me when I panted my hate, "for every word you say will afford him satisfaction."

"I wish I had staved in the canoe in the middle of the lake," I exclaimed bitterly.

"Ta-wan-ne-ars, too, thought of that," he admitted. "Yet must we have died with our tormenters, and perhaps if we wait we may escape and live to slay them at less cost to ourselves."

"It is not likely," I answered, for my spirits were very low. "What is this place? Where are we?"

Ta-wan-ne-ars looked around the landscape, rapidly dimming in the twilight. We had been left in custody of the Indians on the river-bank whilst de Veulle conversed with three white men who had emerged from the palisades as we scrambled ashore.

"This place Ta-wan-ne-ars does not know," he replied. "Yet it is on the river St. Lawrence, for there is no other stream of this size. I think, brother, that de Veulle is taking us to La Vierge du Bois."

"It matters little where he takes us," I returned ill-naturedly. "Our end is like to be the same in any case."

"At the least," said Ta-wan-ne-ars with a smile, "we shall have solved the riddle of the Doom Trail."

"And what will that avail us?" I countered. "Joncaire told me all I sought to know of Jagara—but he told it to a dead man."

"Not yet dead, brother," Ta-wan-ne-ars corrected me gently. "We have still a long way to go—and we have our search."

"Which is like to lead us into the hands of ——," I said rudely.

But de Veulle and the three strange Frenchmen walked up at that moment, and Ta-wan-ne-ars was spared the necessity of an answer.

"'Tis well," de Veulle was saying. "We will rest the night, then. I'll lodge my prisoners in the stockade."

"And there is naught else!" asked one of the others.

"The letter to Père Hyacinthe—don't forget that."

Whereat they all four laughed with a kind of sinister mystery and cast glances of amusement at us.

"I would I might see the Moon Feast," said another.

"Some day, if you are accepted amongst the Ga-go-sra, you may," returned de Veulle. "Be ready with the letter, I beg you. I must start early with the daylight if I am to be in time for the feast."

The Cahnuagas drove us from the bank with kicks and blows of their paddle-blades, and the white men followed leisurely, laughing now and then as we dodged some particularly vicious attack upon our heads and faces. As it was, when we were flung into a bare log-walled room within the palisade we were covered with bruises. 'Twas the real beginning of our torment.

In the morning our arms were untied and we were given a mess of half-cooked Indian meal. Then the rawhides were rebound, and we set forth upon a trail that led from the river southeastward into the forest. A Cahnuaga walked behind each of us, tomahawk in hand. De Veulle himself brought up the rear, his musket always ready.

I prefer not to think of that day. The heat of early Summer was in the air, and although it was cooler in the forest than in the open, a host of insects attacked us; and with our hands bound, we could not fight them off. Ta-wan-ne-ars had the thick hide of his race, and they bothered him less than they did me; but we were both in agony by the time we made camp and the smoke-smudge kindled by our guards in self-protection gave us temporary relief.

The next day was much the same. If we hesitated in our pace or staggered, the savage nearest to us used the flat of his tomahawk or his musket-butt. Ta-wan-ne-ars walked before me in the column, and the sight of his indifference, his disdainful air toward all the slights put upon him, maintained my courage when otherwise it must have yielded.

On the third day, shortly after noon, I was astonished to hear faintly, but very distinctly, a bell ringing in the forest. And I remembered the words of the Cahnuaga who had been last of his brethren to die in that fight in the glade on the Great Trail—

"A building with a tower and a bell that rings."

"La Vierge du Bois welcomes you," hailed de Veulle from behind us. "The bell rings you in. Ah, there will be bright eyes and flushed cheeks at sight of you!"

He laughed in a pleasant, melodious way.

"White cheeks to flush for you, Ormerod, and red cheeks to grow duskier for our friend the chief here! What a fluttering of hearts there will be!"

Could I have wrenched my hands free I would have snatched a tomahawk from the Cahnuaga before me. But I did what Ta-wan-ne-ars did—held my head straight and walked as if I had not heard. Something told me the Seneca suffered as much as I.

We did not hear the bell again; but in mid-afternoon the forest ended upon the banks of a little river, and in the distance a wooden tower showed through the trees. As we drew nearer other buildings appeared, arranged in irregular fashion about a clearing. One of pretentious size stood by itself inside a palisade.

Cahnuagas, including women and children, swarmed along the trail with guttural cries. A big, red-headed man stepped from a building which was evidently a storehouse. 'Twas Bolling, and with a yell of delight he snatched a block of wood from the ground and hurled it at my head.

"Curse me, 'tis the renegade and his red shadow!" he shouted. "We are in great luck! Do but wait until Tom knows you are here, my friend. The stake awaits you!"

He walked beside us, rubbing his hands together in high glee, and discoursing with seemingly expert knowledge on the precise character of the various kinds of torment we should undergo. From time to time he would break off to call upon the Cahnuagas for confirmation or new ideas, and they never failed to support him. Once in a while he kicked us or beat us with the nearest stick he could reach.

His attentions drew a considerable crowd; and so when we entered the single rude street of the settlement 'twas to find the whole population awaiting us. The gate in the stockade around the big house was open, and with a thrill I realized that a swirl of color there meant Marjory. Murray's stately figure I identified at a distance.

I think she did not know me at first. There was no reason why she should. My leather garments were rent and torn, my hair was tangled and matted with briers and thorns from the underbrush, my face was scratched and bleeding. I was thin and gaunt, and I might not walk upright, although I tried, for the rawhide thongs bowed my shoulders.

But Murray knew me instantly, and a flare of exultation lighted his face. Behind him, too, stood the animal-shape of Tom, long arms almost trailing on the ground; and the negro's yellow eyes seemed to expand with tigerish satisfaction.

De Veulle halted us directly in front of the gate.

"An old acquaintance has consented to visit us," he said.

And with a shock of grief I saw comprehension dawn in Marjory's face. But she did not flush crimson, as de Veulle had prophesied. She blenched white. I knew by that she had been long enough at La Vierge du Bois to appreciate the temper of its inhabitants.

"I seem to recollect the tall Indian beside our friend, likewise," observed Murray.

"'Tis his companion of the interview at Cawston's in New York," rejoined de Veulle. "What, Mistress Marjory, you have not forgotten the rash youth who was always threatening or badgering us?"

Her lips moved mechanically, but 'twas a minute before she could force her voice to obey.

"I remember," she said.

Murray took snuff precisely and addressed himself to me.

"Master Juggins, Master Juggins—oh, I beg your pardon! I keep confusing your names. Master Ormerod, then—did I not warn you to leave the Doom Trail alone?"

I laughed.

"I have not been near the Doom Trail," I answered.

"No," answered de Veulle. "I found him cozening that old fool Joncaire at Jagara."

"So!"

Murray pursed his lips.

"'Tis a serious offense."

"For which, it seems, Joncaire is not to be permitted to take revenge," I added.

"You are a dangerous youth, Master Ormerod," admonished Murray gravely. "You had opportunity to win free of your past misdemeanors, you will allow, yet you would hear none of my advice. No, you must mix in affairs which did not concern you. And as I warned you, it hath been to your sore prejudice. Much as I——"

Marjory flung out her arms in a gesture of appeal.

"Why do you talk so much, sir?" she cried. "What have you in mind? This man is an Englishman! Is he to be given up to the savages?"

Murray surveyed her gravely.

"Tut, tut, my dear! Is this the way to conduct in public? 'Given up to the savages,' forsooth! The young man is a traitor, a renegade—and a sorry fool into the bargain. He is in an uncomfortable situation, thanks to his own mistakes and heedlessness. He hath meddled in matters beyond his comprehension or ability. We must reckon up the harm he hath done, and assess his punishment in proportion."

"Just what do you mean by that, sir?" she demanded coldly.

He brushed a speck of snuff from his sleeve.

"Frankly, my dear lass, I can not tell you as yet."

"I think you mock me," she asserted. "And I tell you, sir, I will be party to no such crime against humanity. You talk of traitors. I am wondering if there is more than one meaning to the word."

She turned with a flutter of garments and sped into the house. De Veulle eyed Murray rather quizzically, but the arch-conspirator gave no evidence of uneasiness.

"You shall tell me about it," he said, as if nothing had happened. "Meantime I suppose they may be lodged with the Keepers."

"Yes," agreed de Veulle; "but I desire to give some particular instructions for their entertainment."

"Do so; do so, by all means," answered Murray equably. "But wait; here comes Père Hyacinthe."

The Indians surrounding us huddled back, cringing against the stockade, their eyes glued upon a tall, thin figure in a threadbare black cassock of the Jesuit order. He walked with a peculiar halting gait. His face was emaciated, the akin stretched taut over prominent bones. His eyes blazed out of twin caverns.

Parts of his ears were gone, and as he drew nearer I saw that his face was criss-crossed by innumerable tiny scars. When he raised his hand in blessing the Indians I realized that two fingers were missing, and those which were left were twisted and gnarled as by fire.

"Whom have we here?" he called in a loud, harsh voice.

"Two prisoners, reverend sir," replied Murray. "English spies caught at Jagara by the vigilance of Monsieur de Veulle."

"Are they heretics?" demanded the priest.

"I fear I have never conversed with Master Ormerod concerning his religious beliefs," said Murray whimsically. "I should add, by the way, father, that the young man is the spy of whom I told you, who crossed upon our ship with us."

The priest peered closely at me.

"Well, sir," he asked brusquely, "are you a son of the true faith?"

"Not the one you refer to, sir," I said.

"And this savage here?"

"He believes, quite devoutly, I should say, in the gods of his race."

The Jesuit locked and unlocked his fingers nervously.

"I fear, monsieur, that you will suffer torment at the hands of my poor children here," he said. "Will you not repent before it is too late?"

"But will you stand by and see your children torture an Englishman in time of peace?" I asked.

His eyes fairly sparked from the shelter of their cavernous retreats.

"Peace?" he rasped. "There is no peace—there can be no peace—between England, the harlot nation, and holy France. France follows her destiny, and her destiny is to rule America on behalf of the Church."

"Yet peace there is," I insisted.

"I refuse to admit it. We know no peace here. We are at war, endless war, physically, spiritually, mentally, with England. If you come amongst us, you do so at your bodily peril. But"—and the challenge left his voice and was replaced by a note of pleading, soft and compelling—"it may be, monsieur, that in your bodily peril you have achieved the salvation of your soul. Repent, I urge you, and though your body perish your soul shall live."

Murray and de Veulle stirred restlessly during this harangue, but the savages were so silent you could hear the birds in the trees. I was interested in this man, in his fanatic sincerity, his queer conception of life.

"But if I repented, as you say," I suggested, "would not you save my body?"

His eyes burned with contempt.

"Would you drive a bargain with God?" he cried. "For shame! Some may tolerate that, but I never will! What matters your miserable body! It has transgressed the rights of France. Let it die! But your soul is immortal; save that, I conjure you!"

"Aye; but do you think it Christian to permit a fellow-man, whether he be of your faith or not, to be tortured by savages?"

The contempt died in his eyes, and was replaced by a dreamy ecstasy.

"Death? What is death?" he replied. "And what matters the manner of death? Look at me, monsieur."

He fixed my gaze on each of his infirmities.

"I am but the wreck of a man. These poor, ignorant children of the wilderness have worked their will with me, and because it was best for me God permitted it. Torture never hurt any man. It is excellent for the spirit. It will benefit you. If you must die——"

His voice trailed into nothingness.

De Veulle interposed.

"Reverend father," he said, "I have a letter for you from Jacques Fourier. The rivermen would like you to give them a mass Sunday. 'Tis a long——"

"Give me the letter," he cried eagerly. "Ah, that is good reading! Sometimes I despair for my sons—aye, more than for the miserable children of the wilderness. But now I know that a seed grows in the hearts of some that I have doubted. I shall go gladly."

He turned to depart, retraced his steps and fixed me with his gaze that seemed almost to scorch the skin.

"Remember what I have said, monsieur. Repent, and in the joy which will come to your soul you will rejoice in your agony. You will triumph in it. Your heart will be uplifted by it. Do I not know! I have suffered myself, a whole day at the stake once, and again for half a day."

De Veulle winked at Murray as the priest limped away.

"I must send Jacques a barrel of brandy for this," he remarked; "but our Cahnuagas would be in the sulks if they could not celebrate the Moon Feast, and they stand in such fear of the worthy Hyacinthe that they would never risk his wrath."

"The Moon Feast!" exclaimed Murray. "True, I had forgotten. Well, 'twill be an excellent introduction to the customs of the savages for our friend the intruder."

"'Twill make a great impression upon him," laughed de Veulle. "In fact, upon both of them. I have a surprize for our Iroquois captive as well. The Mistress of the False Faces awaits them."

"Then haste the dancing. Will you dine with us?"

De Veulle hesitated, looked longingly toward the end of the clearing and more longingly toward the house within the stockade which housed Marjory.

"Aye," he said at last.

He murmured some orders to our guards, kicked me out of his path and sauntered through the gateway beside Murray.

XVIII THE MISTRESS OF THE FALSE FACES

With Bolling in active supervision and Tom hanging greedily on the flanks of the crowd, we were hustled through the clearing, past the chapel and an intervening belt of woodland, into a second and much larger open space, crammed with bark lodges and huts.

"A big village," I gasped to Ta-wan-ne-ars as I dodged a blow at my head.

"'Tis the haunt of the Keepers," he replied. "See, there are Adirondacks and Shawendadies, as well as Cahnuagas. And those yonder are Hurons from north of the Lakes."

Bolling slashed him across the face with a strip of raw-hide.

"Keep your breath for the torture-stake, you Iroquois cur!"

Ta-wan-ne-ars laughed at him.

"Red Jack can only fight with a whip," he said. "But when Ta-wan-ne-ars holds a tomahawk he runs."

Bolling struck at him again, but the restless horde of our tormenters pried the ruffian away as some new group pushed to the front to have a look at the prisoners and deal a blow or two. The throng became so dense that individual castigation was impossible, and we were tossed along like chips in a whirlpool.

In the end we were hurled, head over heels, into a natural amphitheater on the far side of the village, where a background of dark pines walled in a wide surface of hard-beaten, grassless ground. Two stakes stood ready, side by side, in the center, and our captors tore off our tattered clothes and lashed us to these with whoops of joy.

So we stood, naked and bound, ankle, knee, thigh, chest and armpit, whilst the sun, setting behind the village, flooded the inferno with mellow light and an army of fiends, men, women and children, pranced around us. For myself, I was dazed and fearful, but Ta-wan-ne-ars again showed me the better road.

"The Keepers scream like women," he shouted, in order to make himself heard. "Have you never taken captives before?"

They shrieked a medley of abuse at him, but once more he compelled their attention by force of will.

"Are you afraid to let Ta-wan-ne-ars and his brother run the gantlet?" he demanded.

A squat Cahnuaga chief grinned and shook his head.

"We do not want you to tire yourself," he answered. "You would not be able to last so long under torture."

"You are afraid of us," jeered Ta-wan-ne-ars. "You know that if we were free we could escape from your whole tribe. You are women. We scorn you. Do you know what has become of the seven warriors Murray sent to pursue us on the Great Trail?"

Silence prevailed.

"Yes, there were seven of them," gibed Ta-wan-ne-ars. "And there were three of us. And where are they? I will tell you, Cahnuaga dogs, Adirondack dogs, Shawendadie dogs, Huron dogs. Crawl closer on your bellies while I tell you.

"Their scalps hang in the lodge of Ta-wan-ne-ars—seven scalps of the Keepers who could not fight against real men. The scalps of seven who called themselves warriors and who were so rash that they tried to fight three."

A howl of anger answered him.

"Begin the torment," yelled Bolling.

Tom drew a wicked knife and ran toward us, his yellow eyes aflame. But the squat Cahnuaga chief pushed him back.

"They are to be held for the Moon Feast," he proclaimed. "See, the Mistress comes. Stand back, brothers."

The sound of a monotonous wailing filled the air, joining itself with the evening breeze that sighed in the branches of the pines behind us. The crowd of savages drew away from us in sudden awe.

"Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta," they muttered to each other.

"What do they say!" I asked Ta-wan-ne-ars.

His eyes did not leave a long dark building on the edge of the amphitheater.

"The Mistress of the False Faces is coming," he replied curtly.

"And who is she?"

"The priestess of their devilish brotherhood."

Out from the long bark building wound a curious serpentine procession of men in fantastic head-masks, who danced along with a halting step. As they danced they sang in the weird monotone we had first heard. And behind them all walked slowly one without a mask, a young girl of upright, supple figure, her long black hair cascading about her bare shoulders. Her arms were folded across her breast. She wore only the short ga-ka-ah, or kilt, with moccasins on her feet.

The breath whistled in Ta-wan-ne-ars' nostrils as his chest heaved against its bonds, and I turned my head in amazement. The expression on his face was compounded of such demoniac ferocity as I had seen there once before—that, and incredulous affection.

"What is it?" I cried.

He did not heed me. He did not even hear me. His whole being was focussed upon the girl whose ruddy bronze skin gleamed through the masses of her hair, whose shapely limbs ignored the beat of the music which governed the motions of her attendants.

The procession threaded its way at leisurely pace through the throngs of Indians, the girl walking as unconcernedly as if she were alone, her head held high, her eyes staring unseeingly before her.

"Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta," murmured the savages, bowing low.

The False Faces drew clear of the crowd, and danced solemnly around us. They paid us no attention, but when they had strung a complete circle around the stakes they faced inward and stopped, each one where he stood. For the first time the priestess, or Mistress as they called her, showed appreciation of her surroundings. She walked into the ring of masks and took up her position in front of us and between our stakes. She had not looked at us.

"Bow down, O my people," she chanted in a soft voice that was hauntingly sweet. "The False Faces are come amongst you, for it is again the period of our rule, and I, their Mistress, am to give you the word.

"Behold, the old moon is dying, and a new moon will be born again to us. The Powers of Evil, the Powers of Good and the Powers of Life are come together for the creation.

"Thrice fortunate are you that you recognize the rule of So-a-ka-ga-gwa,[1] for it brings you well-being, now and hereafter in the Land of Souls. Moreover, it brings you captives, and your feast will be graced by their sufferings."

She turned to face us, arms flung wide in a graceful gesture. I thought that Ta-wan-ne-ars would burst the thongs that bound him. His powerful chest expanded until they stretched.

"Ga-ha-no!" he sobbed.

She faltered, and her hands locked together involuntarily between her breasts. A light of apprehension dawned in her eyes, and for a moment I thought there was a trace of something more.

"Ga-ha-no!" pleaded Ta-wan-ne-ars.

But she regained the mastery of herself, and a mocking smile was his answer.

"They are no ordinary captives who will consecrate our feast," she continued her recitative.

"For one is a chief of the Iroquois and a warrior whose valor will resist the torment with pride. And the other is a white chief whose tender flesh will yield great delight and whose screams will give pleasure in our ears.

"Great is the triumph of the French chief de Veulle, who is himself of our order. Great is the triumph of the brave Keepers who aided him. Great will be the future triumphs which So-a-ka-ga-gwa will give us in return for these sacrifices.

"O my people, this is the Night of Preparation. When An-da-ka-ga-gwa,[2] the husband of So-a-ka-ga-gwa, retires to rest to mourn his dead wife and make ready for the new one he will take tomorrow, you must retire to your lodges, and put out your fires, and let down your hair.

"For in the night the spirits of Ha-nis-ka-o-no-geh[3] will come to hold communion with their servants, the False Faces, and they will be hungry for your souls.

"And this is my warning to you, O my people. Heed the warning of the Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta.

"And on the next night we will celebrate the Moon Feast, and I will dance for you the Moon Dance, and you shall dance the Torture Dance. And we will tear the hearts out of our enemies' breasts and grow strong from their sufferings."

She tossed her arms above her head, and the ring of False Faces burst into their high-pitched, nasal chant, and resumed the hesitant dancing step, their horrible masks wobbling from side to side, their painted bodies, naked save for the breech-clout, posturing in rhythm.

Their Mistress summoned the squat Cahnuaga chief, who seemed to be especially charged with our safe-keeping.

"You will unbind the captives from the stakes and place them in the Council-House," she said coldly. "If they are left out in the night, my brothers and sisters, the aids of Ha-ne-go-ate-geh will devour them. Feed them well, so that they will be strong to resist their torment, and tie them securely, and place a guard of crafty warriors over them. If they escape, you shall be the sacrifice at the Moon Feast."

The chief groveled before her.

"The commands of the Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta shall be obeyed," he promised. "And I pray you will hold off the Spirits of Evil tonight, for sometimes they have been overbold and have snatched our people from their lodges."

"You are safe this time if you heed my words," she answered, "for you have secured a sacrifice which will be very pleasing to So-a-ka-ga-gwa and her friends."[4]

Then she came up quite close to us. She looked at me with frank curiosity, and particularly at my hair, which was brown. But most of her attention was bestowed upon Ta-wan-ne-ars.

"So you remember me?" she said in a hard voice and speaking in the Seneca dialect.

"I remember you, Ga-ha-no," he answered. "But I see you do not remember me."

"Oh, well enough," she returned. "But I am no longer an ordinary woman. I am the Mistress of the False Faces——"

"And of a French snake," he added bitterly.

Her eyes flashed.

"I am not a squaw, which is what I should have been had you and my stupid father had your way with me!"

Ta-wan-ne-ars shook his head sadly.

"Ta-wan-ne-ars has only one regret that he is to die," he said. "That is because he can not live to find your lost soul and return it to you."

"My lost soul?" she repeated.

"Yes."

She laughed harshly.

"Ta-wan-ne-ars is a child," she said. "His heart is turned to water. He talks of things which are not. My soul is here." She tapped her left breast.

"It does not matter, however, for the Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta does not need a soul as other mortals do."

She turned on her heel abruptly, and followed the priests into the long bark house from which they had emerged.

The great mob of Indians melted away as soon as she left us. They all but fled in order to reach their lodges before sundown, and so hurried were our guards that in removing us from the stakes to the Council-House in the center of the village they forbore to beat or maltreat us.

In the Council-House they supplied us with a liberal meal of meat and vegetables. Then our bonds were replaced and we were covered with robes, whilst our guards cowered close to the fire in abject fear. They started at the slightest movement. Had we been able to stir hand or foot I think we might have won our freedom. But they had used care in binding us, and we lay inert as corpses.

"What do they fear?" I whispered to Ta-wan-ne-ars at length, desirous of hearing a friendly voice.

He roused himself from the gloom which enwrapped him.

"I do not know exactly, brother," he said. "These Cahnuagas are renegades from the Great League. This demon faith of theirs, with its False Faces and their Mistress, is a corruption of some of our ancient beliefs."

"But the Moon Feast they talk about," I persisted. "What is that?"

"It is some invention of their own," he replied. "Perhaps Murray or de Veulle helped them with it. My people know nothing of such things."

Through the bark walls of the house came the weird, minor melody which had attended the appearance of the Mistress of the False Faces, mingled with shrieks, groans, screams and yells. Our guards huddled closer together. They abandoned their weapons and covered their heads with blankets. A drum throbbed near by, and at intervals sounded the wailing chant of the masked priests and the thudding of dancing feet.

Once a woman's voice soared, shrill and sweet, above the bedlam of noises, and Ta-wan-ne-ars' face was contorted as if rats were gnawing at his vitals.

"Your grief is very great, brother," I said.

"It is," he answered.

"Be at ease," I begged him, "for sure 'tis no fault of yours."

"Of that Ta-wan-ne-ars can not be sure," he replied somberly.

He struggled into a sitting position, resting his back against one of the supports of the roof.

"Cahnuaga dogs," he said—and his voice was not the voice of a captive, but of a chief—"what is it that you fear?"

The squat chief allowed his nose to protrude from the blanket which completely covered him.

"The False Faces dance with the Evil Ones in preparation for the birth of So-a-ka-ga-gwa," he mumbled. "They are hungry for human meat."

"Who told you that this was so?"

"The False Faces."

"But how do you know that it is not a lie?"

The chief shook his head vigorously.

"Even the white chief Murray stays within doors when the False Faces dance," he said.

"And the other white dog—de Veulle?"

"He is one of them. He was raised up by the Old Mistress when he lived amongst us before. It was he discovered the New Mistress."

Ta-wan-ne-ars sank down upon his back again.

"You fear shadows," he said contemptuously.

But the Cahnuagas were too demoralized to resent his taunts. The uproar outside increased in violence. Women's voices, some in dreadful protestation, some in eager ecstasy, joined in it. It was near, then at a distance, then returning. And occasionally that one shrill, sweet voice quelled the saturnalia and was lifted on a note of pagan exultation—only to be drowned in the thrumming of the drums.

Our fire dwindled and was rekindled. The night crept on toward the dawn. The monotony of the noises, the endless repetition, deadened the senses, and we slept. When I awakened, 'twas to see the daylight trickling through the smoke-hole in the roof. Ta-wan-ne-ars still slept beside me, the lines of his anguish hewn deep in his face. Our guards lay under their blankets, snoring lustily. The fire was dead. My bones and muscles ached from their confinement.

I regarded myself, naked, bruised, scarred, sprawled in this den of savages. A few months ago I had thought myself at the low ebb of my fortunes. The dungeons of the Tower and the headsman had awaited me. Now I faced death by torment in such horrid rites as my imagination could not depict. I had fled to the New World to improve my lot—and the improvement was like to consist of an early exit to another world which optimists proclaimed a better one.

Somewhere in the sunshine a bird began to sing, and my captors yawned and sat up. The squat chief, his fears of the night gone, kicked Ta-wan-ne-ars awake.

"This is the day of the Moon Feast," he said. "You will soon clamor to die."

XIX THE MOON FEAST

We were kicked and harried through the village to the Dancing-Place; but a messenger stayed us at the last minute, and our guards flogged us back into the Council-House. We were fed perfunctorily and given water to drink, then left to our own devices whilst the guards played a gambling game with peach-stones. So the morning dragged by until the sun was beginning to decline toward the west and a second messenger disturbed the wrangling players.

We were yanked to our feet and pushed outside. Thousands of Indians lined the narrow, dirty streets between the bark houses and lodges. They greeted us with a silence so intent that it was as arresting as a shout. Not a finger was laid upon us, not a voice was raised. Yet the fierce anticipation which gleamed in every face was more threatening than definite gestures.

The guards hustled us along; and as we passed, the hordes of savages closed in behind us and flowed in a mighty, barbaric stream at our heels. Ahead of us opened the flat expanse of the Dancing-Place, with the two lonely stakes, flanked by piles of freshly gathered firewood, standing like portents of evil against the dark-green background of the pines which walled the rear of the amphitheater.

Ta-wan-ne-ars looked eagerly in every direction, but she whom he sought was not present nor were there visible any of her carrion crew of priests. Only the sinister faces of the negro, Tom, and Bolling, with his tangle of red hair, stirred recollections in that alien, hostile mass. They, too, were under the spell of the gathering, a spell which seemed to have for its object the compression of the combined malevolence of the ferocious throng.

Our guards bound us to the stakes as they had the day before, and Ta-wan-ne-ars, with a significant glance at me, rallied them with the searching wit of his race.

"The Cahnuaga dogs are not used to taking captives," he commented. "They do not know what to do unless their white masters tell them. They are women. They should be tilling the field. They do not know how to torment real warriors."

When they were passing the thongs under his arm-pits, the Seneca bent forward and fastened his teeth in the forearm of an incautious guard. The blood spurted and the man yelped with pain. Ta-wan-ne-ars laughed.

"Unarmed and bound, yet I can hurt you," he cried. "Truly, you are women. The warriors of the Great League scorn you."

Strangely enough, they made no retaliation upon him; but, having securely fastened us to the stakes, withdrew and stood somewhat apart from the encompassing crowds.

The silence continued for more than an hour, when a lane was opened opposite to us and Murray and de Veulle sauntered forward.

"I trust you have fared well, Master Juggins—I beg pardon, Master Ormerod?" remarked Murray urbanely. "No discomforts? Enough to eat and sufficient attention?"

I profited by Ta-wan-ne-ars' example, and thrust for the one weak spot in the man's armor of egotism.

"You do proclaim yourself for what you are," I answered him steadily. "Sure, no man of breeding would descend to the depths you reach. I do assure you, fellow, if you ever return to civilization and attempt to mix with the gently bred, your plow-boy origin will out."

His face was suffused to a purple hue.

"'Sdeath!" he rasped. "Sir, know you not I am of the Murrays of Cobbielaw? I quarter my arms with the Keiths! I have a right to carry the Bleeding Heart on my shield! I——"

"No, no," I interrupted. "'Tis easy for you to claim here in the wilderness, but the humblest cadet of the house of Douglas would disprove you. 'Tis the bleeding hearts of your enemies you bear. You tear them out like the savages and devour them to make medicine. You are a foul, cowardly half-breed, more red than white."

"I have the blood of kings in my veins!" he shouted in the words he had used on board ship.

I laughed in his face, and Ta-wan-ne-ars joined in. Murray stormed in vain. I heaped ridicule upon his claims until cynical amusement appeared in de Veulle's eyes, for the man's conceit was fantastic.

"My mother was a Horne of ——" he asserted finally.

"I dislike to speak ill of any woman," I cut him off; "and certes I could weep for the grief of her who conceived you, whatever she was. But I make no doubt she was some Huron squaw."

His face went dead white.

"I was pleaded with overlong to spare you," he said in accents so cold that the words fell like icicles breaking from the rocks. "I am glad I resisted."

"You were never tempted to yield," I assured him.

"I shall give orders now that your torments be the most ingenious our savages can devise," he returned.

"I doubt it not," I said.

"You will die in much agony," he continued placidly. "Nobody will ever know of your taunts. And I"—his vanity flared up again—"I shall die a marquis and a duke."

"And a convicted criminal," I added.

He murmured something to de Veulle and walked away, the savages moving from his path as if he were death in person, for indeed they feared him, more even than they feared Black Robe and their own accursed priests. He was the master of all.

"So you are to be chief torturer, monsieur le chevalier?" I remarked to de Veulle.

"Even so," he agreed.

"There could not be a fitter," I said sympathetically.

"I thank you for your appreciation," he replied.

"Yes," I reflected aloud, "unless it be at small-swords or in fair fight with any weapon, you should make a fair executioner. 'Twas an excellent butcher was spoiled in the modeling of you."

But de Veulle refused to be annoyed.

"Keep up your spirits by all means," he said—and in sober truth, I talked as much for that as to plague my enemies. "You will need them anon. I have instructed the savages to give you the long torment. You will be still alive this time tomorrow. Think of it! Your Iroquois friend knows what that means—an eyeless, bloody wreck of a man, begging to be slain! Ah, well, you would blunder in my way."

"I thought it was Murray's way," I answered.

"'Tis all one. And after all, as you must know, Murray is no more than a pawn in our plans."

"He would enjoy hearing you say so."

"He never will—and you will not be able to tell him when next you see, or rather, hear him."

He beckoned to the Cahnuaga chief.

"Let loose your people," he ordered, and stepped back.

The Cahnuaga put his hand to his mouth, and the high-pitched, soaring notes of the war-whoop resounded through the air. And as if one directing center animated them all the thousands of savages closed in on us, yelling and shrieking, weapons menacing, feet pounding the measures of some clumsy dance.

They swirled round and round us, those who could get nearest dashing up to the stakes to mock at us or threaten us with words and weapons. Nobody touched us, but the strain of constantly expecting physical assault was nerve-racking. Ta-wan-ne-ars smiled serenely at them all, and when he could make himself heard, returned their threats.

This continued for a long time. Twilight was at hand before they dropped back, and a select band of young warriors began to exhibit their skill with bow and arrow, knife and tomahawk. Arrows were shot between our arms and bodies; tomahawks hurtled into the posts beside our ears; knives were hurled from the far side of the open space, so closely aimed that their points shaved our naked ribs. Once in a while we were scratched; the handle of a tomahawk, poorly thrown, raised a bump on my forehead. And de Veulle, squatting on the ground with a knot of chiefs, applauded the show.

It went on and on. New forms of mental torture were constantly devised. Darkness closed down, and the fires beside the stakes were lighted. I was in a daze. I had ceased to feel fear or misgiving. I was conscious only of a great weariness and thirst. The clamor that dinned in my ears, the weapons that jarred the post at intervals, the wild figures that leaped in the firelight—all combined in a weird blur that gradually became a coherent picture as my mind recalled for the second time the dying words of the Cahnuaga in the glade by the Great Trail.

"'Be sure that whatever you do you cannot equal the ingenuity of the Ga-go-sa.'"

Hark! What was that eery sound that stole through the shadows, a sliding, minor chant that wailed and died away?

But the picture went on shaping itself in my mind.

"'I seem to see pictures in the firelight of a stake, and a building with a tower and a bell that rings, and many of the Ga-go-sa dance around you, and your pain is very great.'"

Yes, there was the picture: our stakes, side by side, two instead of one; the fires that roared and flamed, the figures that danced and yelled; and beyond, across the village, the tower with the "bell that rings," looming above the trees. And as I looked, the sickle moon, silvery-bright and sharp as a sword, protruded its upper horn over the wooden tower.

Of a sudden I realized that the shouting had died down. The prancing figures were at rest. But into the circle of firelight swayed the hideous column of False Faces, their masks of monstrous birds and beasts and reptiles seeming alive with horrid purpose in the shifting gloom, their feet moving harmoniously in the hesitant step of the dance, their voices united in the monotonous music of their chant.

They strung a circle, as they had done the day before, and halted, heads wabbling this way and that. There was a brief pause, and I noticed de Veulle, risen to his feet and staring intently behind me, where the wall of pines made a perfect background for the spectacle. A sigh burst from the half-seen throngs of savages.

"Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta!"

I craned my neck, and as well as the thongs permitted me peered around the stake to which I was lashed. A white figure flitted from the protection of the trees and glided toward us. The False Faces started a queer, rhythmic air, accompanied by gently throbbing drums. The figure commenced to dance, arms wide, hair floating free. Besides me Ta-wan-ne-ars choked back a groan of hate and love and fought fruitlessly against the rawhide thongs.

'Twas Ga-ha-no. She danced forward, passing between our stakes and into the open arena which was delimited by the vague, crouching forms of the False Faces. She wore again her ceremonial uniform, the kilt and moccasins; but this time they were white, fashioned of skins taken from the bellies of young does. Her limbs and body, too, were coated with some white substance that made her gleam like a delicate marble statue when she postured in the flickering radiance of the fires. Her hair floated about her like a black mist, first concealing, then revealing, the perfect, swelling lines of her figure.

She tossed up her arms in a curving gesture toward the moon, riding low above the treetops. The music of the attendant priests swung into a faster measure, the pulsing of the drums became subtly disturbing, commanding.

"O So-a-ka-ga-gwa," she cried, "I, your servant, the Mistress of the False Faces, begin now the Moon Feast we make in your honor!"

She resumed her dance, but 'twas very different from the graceful, pleasing steps she had first used. I know not how to describe it, save perhaps that 'twas like the music, provocative, appealing to the basest instincts in man, indecent with a peculiarly attractive indecency. It was, I think, the dance of creation, of the impulse of life, one of the oldest and in its perverted way one of the truest dances which man ever devised. It could only be danced by a savage people, primitive and unashamed.

You could feel its influence upon the bystanders, the thousands who stood or crouched or sat around the curve of the amphitheater beyond the lines of False Faces. You could feel their rising emotion; the instincts, normally half-tamed, that awakened in them; the cravings that slowly began to dominate them. You could hear the catching breaths, the yelps of satisfaction, the growing spirit of license, of utter savagery.

Faster went the measure of the dance. Faster whirled the glistening white figure. Her hair streamed behind her; her moccasins barely touched the ground; her body was contorted with supple precision.

Now she danced before us, her eyes burning with mockery—I know not what—of Ta-wan-ne-ars. Now she spun around the open space in a series of intricate steps and posturings.

The music worked up to a crescendo, the drums thudding with furious speed. Ga-ha-no leaped high in air and raised her arms toward the moon, whose sickle shape was no whiter or fairer than she.

The chant stopped in the middle of a mote, and as her feet touched the ground again she ran lightly across the amphitheater and threw herself into de Veulle's arms. He tossed her upon his shoulder.

"The Moon Feast is open, O my people," she called back as he disappeared with her into the shadows.

All those thousands of people went mad. The Dancing-Place became a wild tumult of naked savages, men and women, leaping in groups and couples to the renewed music of the False Faces. Decency and restraint were cast aside.

Tom and Bolling rolled in barrels of rum, which were opened and consumed as rapidly as the heads were knocked off; and the raw spirits combined with the hellish chant and the suggestive throbbing of the drums to stimulate afresh the passions which Ga-ha-no's dancing had aroused.[1]

At first they paid no attention to us. They were preoccupied with the extraordinary hysteria which had gripped them. They apostrophized the moon. The women flung themselves upon the False Faces, for it was deemed an honor to receive the attentions of these priests of evil. The men worked themselves into an excess of debauchery. Groups formed and dissolved with amazing rapidity. Individuals, wearying of each other, ran hither and thither, seeking partners who were more pleasing or attractive to them.

But at last a portion of the drunken mob turned upon us. An old woman with wispy gray hair and shrunken breasts beat Ta-wan-ne-ars on the flank with a smoldering brand. Bolling, whatever of man there was in him smothered under the brutishness the rum had excited, carefully inserted a pine-splinter in the quick of my fingernail. I gritted my teeth to force back the scream of agony, and managed to laugh—how, I do not know—when he set it alight.

"The brother of Ta-wan-ne-ars is a great warrior," proclaimed my comrade, swift to come to my help. "Red Jack and his friends can not hurt Ormerod. We laugh at you."

Bolling ripped out his knife and staggered toward the Seneca's stake.

"I'll make you laugh," he spat wickedly. "I'll carve your mouth wider so you can laugh plenty when we begin on you in earnest. Think this has been anything? We——"

A yell of mingled fear and laughter interrupted him. False Faces and warriors, women as well as men, were pointing toward the background of the pines.

"Ne-e-ar-go-ye, the Bear, is come to play with us," they cried.

And others prostrated themselves and called—

"Qua, Ga-go-sa Ho-nun-as-tase-ta!"

For the second time that night I twisted my neck to peer behind my stake, and sure the sight which met my eyes was weirder even than the white figure of the Moon Maiden. There within the circle of the firelight stood Ga-ha-no again. But 'twas a vastly different Ga-ha-no. On her head she wore a bear's mask, with the fur of the neck and shoulders falling around her body to the ga-ka-ah which draped her loins. In each hand she gripped a knife, and her white limbs staggered under her in pretense of the unsteady gait of a bear walking erect.

The False Faces began their chant, the drums rumbled crazily, and she wavered forward, arms flopping like paws, head poised absurdly upon one side. She pranced around the circle once, to the immense delight of the Indians, who hailed her with drunken laughter. Then she advanced upon us in the midst of a tense silence.

The fantastic figure followed an uncertain path, exactly as would a bear who was mistrustful of what he saw. The savages, keen to appreciate what they knew, applauded uproariously such faithfulness to nature.

They were equally enthusiastic when she advanced her muzzle suspiciously and smelled of my face. But they could not hear the familiar voice which whispered in my ear—

"Mr. Ormerod, when I have cut your bonds be ready to leap after me as soon as the Iroquois is free."

I started so that my surprize must have been apparent had it not been for the restraining rawhide thongs.

"What?" I gasped. "You!"

"Say nothing. Time is short. And I will——"

She danced, with her ridiculous gait, over to Ta-wan-ne-ars, and I watched curiously his look of affection and detestation change to one of quickly suppressed amazement. With his ready wit he shook his head at her and tried to bite one of the furry ears of her mask.

She backed away from us slowly, and her head balanced from side to side in contemplation. Then she charged upon me, knives flashing before my eyes. She slashed at me here and there, and each time she slashed she severed a thong. I pretended abject fear, and the befuddled savages shouted with glee.

She pranced to Ta-wan-ne-ars and performed the same operation upon him. He, too, gave evidence of fear. He cowered against the stake and lowered his head. But when she advanced her mask and nuzzled his shoulder, I saw his powerful muscles knotting themselves in preparation for the dash for freedom.

"Now!" I heard her say very low.

Ta-wan-ne-ars seemed to rise into the air, thongs flying behind him. I tugged and jumped and my own lashings parted—and I found myself running somewhat stiffly beside the Iroquois.

A second figure drew up to my side, and I felt a knife-hilt pushed into my hand.

"In case," said the familiar voice. "And here is one for the Iroquois, too."

I stared down in bewilderment at the bear-mask. 'Twas so unexpected, yet so obviously what I might have known she would do if the opportunity arose. That clean scorn, that brave honesty of purpose, I had marked in her, were earnest of her determination to dare all for what she believed to be right.

A chorus of yelps like a wolf-pack in full cry split the night behind us. One of the False Faces sprang into our path, and Ta-wan-ne-ars closed with him. The Seneca's knife plunged into his throat, and he collapsed with a strangled scream.

As the pine-trees shrouded us I looked back over my shoulder. The Dancing-Place was covered with a mob of running figures who fell over each other in their drunken frenzy.

XX THE ARGOSY OF FURS

"To the left," sobbed the voice from the bear's mask.

We turned between the trunks of the pines, the mat of fallen needles springy underfoot. Behind us the fires of the Dancing-Place were a faint radiance in the dusk. Branches crashed; bodies hurtled against each other; a bedlam of shrieks resounded to the skies.

"Let me help you," I panted to our rescuer.

"There will be no need," she answered, running stride for stride beside us.

"At the least, slip off your mask," urged Ta-wan-ne-ars.

"I shall be wanting it presently," she returned. "Do not be concerned for me. Many a mile I have run with the gillies over the Highland hills."

She stumbled as she spoke, and I set my hand under her elbow. Ta-wan-ne-ars did the same on the other side, and so we ran for a space, three and three, our bruised and rusty joints gradually limbering with the effort.

Presently we came to an opening amongst the pines, with a huge, flat rock in the center and before the rock the ashes of a fire. My foot struck something round, and a human skull, blackened and charred, bounded ahead of us. I felt a shudder pass through the slender figure in the mask.

"'Tis the altar of the False Faces," she murmured. "If Père Hyacinthe only knew!"

"What dreadful——" I started to say.

"No, no," she said. "Do not be asking me. I can not think of it without pain. But there is this to be thankful for: none but the Ga-go-sa will dare to follow us through the wood."

"Was that your thought?" I questioned.

"No. I was helpless. 'Twas the Mistress—she bade me call her Ga-ha-no—thought of everything."

Ta-wan-ne-ars stopped in his stride.

"What of Ga-ha-no?" he demanded sternly.

She glanced fearfully backward along the way we had come.

"We may not stay," she answered rapidly. "I will talk as we run. Oh, haste, haste, or all will be lost!"

The Seneca resumed his steady gait, but the moonlight filtering through the branches revealed the agony in his face, an agony which the ordeal at the stake had not been able to produce.

"Ga-ha-no thought of all," gasped our companion, her voice strangely muffled by the mask. "She came to me this morning—whilst I was pleading with them—told me how it might be done—fetched me here—procured me the mask and costume—taught me the dance. 'Twas she secured the delay—in your torture—made them send you food—bolstered your strength."

"Where is she now?" asked Ta-wan-ne-ars hardly.

She looked sidewise at him—I think in pity.

"With the Chevalier de Veulle," she said reluctantly.

Then with quick earnestness:

"'Twas part of her plan. It might not—otherwise be done."

He was silent, and we ran on for as much as a quarter-hour, coming then to the bank of a small stream, where a trail marked a ford.

"Under those bushes," she said, pointing, "you will find your clothes and weapons. We hid them this evening."

I scurried into the undergrowth and started to don the tattered leather garments which were fastened in a bundle to the barrel of my musket—the musket that Juggins had given to me, years and years ago, it seemed, in London, and which I had expected never to see again. But she halted me.

"No, no, Mr. Ormerod!" she exclaimed. "There is not time. You must go on alone, the two of you. They will expect you to strike into the Doom Trail. 'Tis the quickest way to the settlements. Ga-ha-no bade me tell you to go west instead, making for Oswego at the mouth of the Onondagas River. So you may shake off the pursuit of the Keepers."

"But you?" I cried, standing up, bundle and musket in hand.

"'Tis my part to lead them into the Doom Trail."

Ta-wan-ne-ars joined with me in a violent protest. But she waved us aside.

"There is no other way."

"We can fight them off," I asserted.

"But I do not wish to leave," she said.

"What? You would stay here in this place of evil, knowing what goes on!"

"There is no other way," she repeated. "I will have learned much since my coming here, Master Ormerod, and amongst other things, to think the less harshly of you."

"For that I am thankful," I replied, "but sure, you must let us take you back to Fort Orange. Governor Burnet will care for you."

"It can not be," she insisted. "My place is here. Wicked as they be, these men here—and he who is called my father is not the cleanest of them—they work in a good cause. 'Tis for me to stay by and see they do what is expected of them for it."

"We will force you to come with us," I declared hotly.

She shook her cumbrous mask.

"You would not do so. Now be off, sir. The False Faces will be on us any moment—and I am not wishing to be caught by them, even though they would not venture to do me harm."

A burst of ferocious yelling came from the heart of the pine wood.

"They have seen traces of us in the open space by the altar," interpreted Ta-wan-ne-ars.

He swung musket and bundle to his shoulder, and faced the bear-mask, a splendid figure in bronze.

"Sister Ne-e-ar-go-ye," he said gravely, "did Ga-ha-no give you any message for Ta-wan-ne-ars?"

She hesitated.

"She said that if you asked for her I was to tell you to forget Ga-ha-no, that she was unworthy of your memory. But you were to believe that what she did for you tonight was in reparation for her first great wrong."

He bowed his head.

"And oh, Ta-wan-ne-ars," she went on impulsively, "she pays a bitter price. Forgive her."

Ta-wan-ne-ars looked up.

"Say this to Ga-ha-no," he answered. "Say Ta-wan-ne-ars thinks of her as a Lost Soul, tarrying for a while with Ata-ent-sic, and in the end he will come for her and bring her home again to his lodge. Say that Ta-wan-ne-ars never forgets."

He raised his right arm in the gesture of farewell, and stepped into the current of the stream.

"We part once more, Marjory," I said, offering my hand.

She took it.

"For certain words I have spoken to you, I am sorry," she said. "I know more now. You may be my enemy, but I believe you not to be a traitor."

"Thank you. And is that all you have to say to me?"

"That is all," she replied softly, withdrawing her hand.

"Do you take this knife, then," I said, sparring for time against my judgment and all expediency.

She refused it.

"If I am caught they will not harm me."

I shivered at thought of the hands of the brutal priests of So-a-ka-ga-gwa on her unsullied body.

"I will not leave you," I cried, and made to walk with her along the trail.

But she pushed me back.

"You will not be helping me by so acting," she insisted in her quaint Gaelic speech which had won me when I first heard it. "And—and some day I may need your help more than I do tonight."

"Will you call upon me then?"

"Yes."

The yelling of the False Faces burst forth much nearer in the wood.

"Please go, Master Ormerod," she begged. "If I am not overtaken, this mask will protect me as far as the chapel, where my own clothes are awaiting me. They dare not enter there."

I captured her hand again and carried it to my lips.

"My name is Harry," I answered. "And I have never forgotten the song in the cabin of the New Venture."

"Thank you, Harry," she returned with a trill of elfin laughter. "And I do assure you I know other songs."

With that she was gone. Yet I had a feeling I had never known before that she was still with me, and I stepped into the water with joy in my heart.

A score of paces down the bank I found Ta-wan-ne-ars, and we crouched under the pendant branches of a willow to see what would happen, muskets primed and ready.

The yelling in the wood increased in volume as the False Faces followed the course we had taken by broken branches and footprints in the pinemold. A misshapen figure with the head of some fabled beast squattered into the trail and galloped around, nose to ground like a hound seeking a lost scent. In a moment the ugly head was lifted, and a howl of satisfaction greeted the other monstrous shapes which joined it. The whole pack gave tongue and vanished up the trail after Marjory.

Ta-wan-ne-ars waited to give the stragglers time to appear, then rose and led the way along the bed of the stream westward.

"Can you pick your path at night?" I inquired anxiously.

He pointed upward to a group of four stars that sparkled in the velvet blue of the Summer sky.

"So long as Gwe-o-ga-ah[1] shines Ta-wan-ne-ars can not be lost," he answered.

We walked in the water for more than a mile, when the stream turned to the north and we stepped out upon a rock and dressed. Afterward we caught the overhanging bough of a tree and swung ourselves on to dry ground above the bank, never leaving a trace of our course up to that time. From this point we traveled on through the forest, pursuing no settled path, but holding to the westward in the direction of Oswego on the shore of the Cadarakui Lake.

We did not stop until after midday. Ta-wan-ne-ars knocked over a wild turkey with his tomahawk, kindled a fire of dry sticks and broiled the juicy bird before the coals. He insisted that I should sleep first, promising to arouse me at the end of two hours—he reckoned time, I should explain, by the declension of the sun. But when he finally did arouse me the sun was close to setting, and I saw by the sunken look of his eyes that he had not slept during his watch.

"Why did you not wake me?" I asked angrily.

"Ta-wan-ne-ars had no wish for sleep," he returned.

"Nonsense," I retorted. "You can not go indefinitely without rest."

"I had my thoughts for company," he said simply. "They are not happy thoughts, brother. They would not let me sleep."

I was shaken by a profound revulsion of feeling. It came over me that I had never fully appreciated the extreme degree of the mental suffering to which he had been exposed.

"Your sorrow is great," I acknowledged, "but sure you know that she for whom you mourn——"

"She is a sick soul," he said. "She has offended the Great Spirit, and he has permitted Ha-ne-go-ate-geh to cast his shadow over her. But some day she will have performed the penance Ha-wen-ne-yu asks of her, and in that day he will permit Ta-wan-ne-ars to reclaim her."

"I hope so," I replied, stunned by the amazing confidence in eternal justice, the Christian charity, of this man who was, properly speaking, a lettered savage.

"Ta-wan-ne-ars knows it," he asserted confidently. "But I can not help thinking of the wickedness of my enemy."

His hand flew to his knife-hilt.

"I am confident of what will come, but I sorrow over what has been and is."

"I wish I had not spared him when his life was in my hand," I cried.

"My brother did not know," answered Ta-wan-ne-ars. "And already then the harm was done, the evil was sowed, the soul was corrupted."

He smiled gravely.

"Your search is ended, brother," he added.

"What do you mean?"

"The soul you sought has been found. It is no longer sick."

"Mayhap," I agreed, "but none the less 'tis out of reach and in great danger."

"We shall save it," he encouraged me. "Ta-wan-ne-ars knows. We must wait. The time will come."

He refused again to sleep, and we ate the remainder of the turkey—our hunger was prodigious—and pushed on, traveling most of the night. Not once did we see a trace of the Keepers, and when we halted Ta-wan-ne-ars said that we were on the marches of the hunting-grounds of the Mohawks. We slept together the remainder of that night, without a fire and on the top of a steep rock which was set with boulders which the foot of any climber must set in motion.

In the late morning we killed a rabbit, broiled and ate it and tramped the virgin forest until long past sunset. That day we ventured to discharge our firearms, and to my vast pride I killed a small deer. The following afternoon we caught our first view of the inland sea from a height of land, and the next morning we sighted the stockade of Oswego, the fort which Governor Burnet had established on the shores of the lake in his effort to divert the far-western fur-trade from the French posts.

The gate was closed, but as we approached it opened, and an enormous, pot-bellied figure in buckskin and fur cap sauntered out to meet us.

"Ja, idt is you," Corlaer hailed us. "I knew that Joncaire was oop to another of his tricks."

"What do you mean?" I asked as he turned to walk back beside us, his fat face as solemn as ever.

"I hafe hadt a scare," he said. "I came back to De-o-nun-da-ga-a from a hundting-party to find a Tahsagrondie messenger from Joncaire who says he is to tell me you fooled der Gofernor of Jagara, but now you are caught andt hafe gone to La Vierge du Bois. Andt der Tahsagrondie says Joncaire is sorry. Ha, ha! I thought it was a funny message."

"Funny mayhap," I replied feelingly. "But 'twas amazingly true."

Ta-wan-ne-ars nodded confirmation, and for an instant I thought Corlaer was going to betray surprize. But he shut his gaping mouth with resolution.

"What has happened?" he demanded. "I hafe come here to scout der Doom Trail andt learn how you diedt—andt you are alife."

So we told him, whilst the lieutenant in command of the post and his garrison of twenty lusty frontiersmen gathered in a knot to listen over each other's shoulders.

"Budt—budt," expostulated Peter, "you hafe been in La Vierge du Bois!"

"True."

"Budt nobody has efer been in La Vierge du Bois——"

"And come out alive," I amended. "I fear many poor souls have been sacrificed by those fiendish priests."

"Andt you fooled Joncaire!" repeated Peter admiringly.

'Twas that indeed which pleased him most. He insisted upon our repeating the tale with all details, and I believe he would have required a third account had it not been for the interruption which came during the afternoon.

We were sitting in the commandant's quarters on the upper floor of the block-house when the sentries on the stockade announced a large fleet of canoes approaching from the west. The lieutenant promptly issued orders to get out the trade-goods, and prepared for an impressive reception of the savages, deeming them emissaries of some tribe come to exchange their fur-catch of the Winter.

But the leading canoes held on past the fort, and none of those which followed gave indication of intent to steer inshore.

"Hafe you a canoe?" asked Corlaer of the bewildered lieutenant. "Ja? Well, my friendts andt I will go andt ask what this means."

We launched the canoe from the water-gate, and with Peter and Ta-wan-ne-ars at the paddles, sped out into the lake. Some distance from shore we overhauled the rear squadron of the fleet, every canoe loaded deep with packages of furs.

"Ho, brothers," called Ta-wan-ne-ars. "Who are you?"

The nearest canoe hove to.

"We are Necariagues," answered a paddler. "In front of us are Ottawas and Missisakies."

"The Chief of the English fort, who commands here in the name of Ga-en-gwa-ra-go, invites you to come ashore and trade with him."

Up stood a large, stout man with lanky black hair, dressed in the uniform of the French marine troops, who had been ensconced behind a bale of furs.

"Ha, 'tis my friend from Arles," he shouted, "and his companion, the noble warchief! So the Keepers did not keep you?"

"No, Monsieur de Joncaire," I replied. "We are still alive to plague you."

"Venire St. Remi, 'tis not sorry I am! Try it again, my lad. Only try it again!"

"And what are you doing with these people?"

He roared with laughter.

"No more than shepherding them past the temptations of this English."

Ta-wan-ne-ars called again to the Indians in the canoes.

"Come ashore, brothers. We have rich goods to trade with you."

"We do not need to trade with the English," replied the Necariague who had spoken before. "We are glad we can trade with our fathers, the French. They have plenty of goods to offer us. Onontio has sent word he will pay better than the English now."

"Ha, ha, ha," exploded Joncaire. "Ho, ho, ho! Mort de ma vie! Tonerr-rr-re de Dieu! 'Tis an odd world! The boot is on the other leg, Monsieur l'Arlesien!

"Present my compliments to Monsieur Burnet, Peter Corlaer. You may tell him I am not so discouraged as I once was. No, no, many things have happened.

"Au revoir—and avoid the Keepers. Avoid the keepers by all means. I am told they keep a strict watch upon the Doom Trail these days."

His paddlers dipped their blades, and his bellows of laughter were wafted back to us as his canoe followed the fur argosy down the lake toward the French posts on the St. Lawrence—posts whose magazines were already beginning to swell with the life-blood of English trade which was pouring over the Doom Trail.

XXI A SCOUT OF THREE

"We must scout the Doom Trail," I said as we carried the canoe through the water-gate and deposited it within the stockade. "I will write the governor at once of affairs at Jagara and La Vierge du Bois. But this last business makes it necessary he should have sure intelligence of what passes to Canada."

"Ja," agreed Corlaer slowly. "Budt I hafe another scheme we might try first—tonight."

"What?"

He surveyed the scores of dwindling canoes, their silvery birchen sides agleam in the sunlight, their dripping paddle-blades shining as the paddlers drove them along.

"They will make camp by sunset at der point of der three rocks. Am I right, Ta-wan-ne-ars?"

The Seneca assented.

"That is eight—ten—miles from here. Ja, we can make it."

"Make what?" I asked impatiently.

"Der distance. Andt my plan."

"What plan, man?"

"To put der grin on der other side of Joncaire's face, by ——! Now you listen."

And he outlined an undertaking which seemed absurdly simple until I chanced to look up and see that fleet of canoes clouding the eastern horizon of the lake.

"They are too many for us," I objected.

"Ja, if they know we come," he admitted. "Budt they do not. Andt I hafe seen brandy-kegs in among der furs."

"It is well worth trying," said Ta-wan-ne-ars deliberately. "If it succeeds it will set back the plans of Onontio and Murray."

"Andt if it does not, then you tell der Gofernor Peter Corlaer tried once too often to get der joke back on Joncaire."

With which sage comment, Peter took himself off to arrange with the post commandant for drawing certain supplies we should require for this new expedition.

Two hours later an express left Oswego with dispatches for Governor Burnet, describing the situation at Jagara and our experiences at La Vierge du Bois, as well as the passage of Joncaire's argosy of furs, the greatest haul which had so far been made by either country that year on the frontier. Before the gate was slammed shut again we three slipped out and waved good-by to the garrison on the walls.

We traveled parallel with the shore of the lake and made no effort to set a fast pace. Ta-wan-ne-ars and I were still tired from our exertions in escaping the hellish abode of the False Faces. We were glad to halt when we glimpsed the glow of fires on the beach ahead of us.

From this point our advance was more cautious, and we parted company with Corlaer in some bushes, whence we could distinguish figures dancing around the flames and hear the distant yells of the guests of Joncaire as they caroused on his thoughtful provision of brandy. The Dutchman stripped to his belt. Ta-wan-ne-ars relieved him of his musket, powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and I shouldered his clothes and pack.

"By der blasted pine—a goodt mile beyondt der other side," whispered Peter as he waded into the water.

"You are sure you can stay afloat so long!" I asked with some misgiving.

"Ja," he said scornfully. "When you hear a noise like a fish rising three times, that is Peter."

He settled knife and tomahawk against either thigh, slung a spare flask of powder beside them, sank forward to his chin and began to cleave the water with powerful, overhand strokes.

"A merry evening to you," I called gently.

A grunt was my answer.

"We must hurry, brother," admonished Ta-wan-ne-ars.

He started off at right angles with the path we had been following, and we fetched a circle around the group of fires, coming ultimately to a high point above the shore half a mile beyond them. Here we rested, both because our weariness was very great and because we desired to witness Peter's exploit, and, if need be, be prepared to aid him.

It was past midnight, and the fires had burned low and the brandy-drinkers soaked themselves stupid. Not a sound came to us, except for the calling of a wolf from the heavy timber inshore and the croaking of water-birds.

'Twas Ta-wan-ne-ars' eagle vision which saw the danger-signal. He gripped my arm.

"Look, brother," he hissed.

I looked, and a flame spurted upward between the fires and the water. There was a sharp explosion. A long minute elapsed, and then a chorus of excited yells rose, dropped and was sustained.

The flame mounted higher, and we could see figures running this way and that in confusion. A musket barked. Others echoed it.

"They saw him in the water," remarked Ta-wan-ne-ars.

"Do you think he escaped?" I asked.

"We should hear the scalp-yell if he was taken or killed. Hark! They still babble like animals."

We listened for ten minutes, and whilst the yelling continued, with intermittent shooting, there was nothing to indicate triumph or satisfaction. In the meantime the flames which Peter had kindled, after flourishing grandly, gradually died out as the awakened savages removed those canoes which had not caught fire and threw water on such as were only smoldering.

We waited another five minutes to make sure the search did not trend in our direction, but the bewildered tools of Joncaire were convinced the attack had come from Oswego and the shouting and firing shifted away from us toward the fort. So we picked up our burdens and descended between boulders and stunted trees to a little bay which was marked by the shattered stump of a pine.

Half an hour passed uneventfully. Then the steady lapping of the water against the beach was disturbed by the splash a fish makes in rising. It was repeated twice. Ta-wan-ne-ars leaned over and splashed the water thrice with his hand. A grunt boomed out of the darkness. Ripples spread in a widening circle, and a huge form stepped noiselessly ashore, ignoring our helping hands.

"Oof, that was a goodt joke on Joncaire," muttered Peter. "Some canoes I smash with der ax andt some I blow up with der powder andt more are burnedt. Where are my clothes? I am soaked like der muskrat. Ja, when we get to der woods I findt me a bear and gife myself a rub with grease. I hafe bubbles under my skin."

"You were long in coming," said Ta-wan-ne-ars. "My brother is not hurt?"

"Nein, nein. Those drunken swine couldt not hit me. I swam far oudt andt at der first up der lake to fool them. Then I turned andt swam back under der water. Ooof, what a swim! I tell you I hafe bubbles under my skin! Ja!"

"Did you damage them much?" I asked eagerly.

Peter suspended the operation of struggling into his shirt and chuckled shrilly.

"I wouldt gife much to see der face of that Joncaire when he counts his canoes andt der fur-packs he has left. Twice now we get der joke on him."

Wet as he was, with the water dripping from his lank hair, he insisted upon quitting that dangerous locality at once. We tramped across country until the sun was high, and we stumbled upon an isolated family of Onondagas, who made us free of their ga-no-sote. They relieved Peter's principal want by furnishing him bear's grease, with which he anointed himself vigorously before sleeping.

We spent two days with these people, recuperating in preparation for the stern task ahead of us. After parting with them we continued in leisurely fashion eastward, keeping well to the north of the Great Trail of the Long House and avoiding as much as possible contact with the Onondagas, Oneidas and Mohawks whose countries we traversed. Some ten days after leaving Oswego we found ourselves on the verge of that untracked domain which was roamed by the Keepers of the Doom Trail.

Here we paused to take counsel with one another.

"Somewhere this side of the Mohawk the Trail begins," said Ta-wan-ne-ars. "Shall we follow the river and scout for signs there?"

"'Tis there the Keepers must be most vigilant," I suggested.

"Ja," spoke up Peter, "andt if we do not come to harm, yet Murray will know we watch."

"What then?" asked Ta-wan-ne-ars.

"Let us scout der country well back from der river. You know aboudt where lies La Vierge du Bois. It shouldt not be difficult to strike der line of der Trail."

This plan we agreed upon, and, so that we might not be constrained to use our muskets in the forbidden territory, we obtained from a Mohawk village a quantity of jerked meat and parched corn mixed with maple sugar ample to sustain us for a week or more. And in order to assure that our departure would be free from the observation of spies we left our last camp after dark and in two parties, Ta-wan-ne-ars and myself going in one direction and Peter in another.

Our meeting-place was a grove on the bank of a creek, one of the tributaries of the Mohawk. We reached it without observation, and lay in concealment most of the day, starting again in the late afternoon and moving warily through the forest, following no particular course, but addressing ourselves rather to the effacement of all evidence of our passage.

We discovered nothing, and the next day and many others went by with no better luck. Sometimes we encountered the slots of deer or bear, and the woodcraft of my comrades would be baffled temporarily until they had proved beyond doubt that the trace was not used by human feet. Once we came upon signs of old encampments, and diligently scouted the vicinity, only to be convinced they were the relics of some casual hunting-party.

Our provisions were exhausted, and we were compelled to live from hand to mouth upon such game as Ta-wan-ne-ars could snare or kill with his tomahawk—and certes he was wondrous proficient in both arts. But we kept on, bearing always eastward and quartering the country in every direction. Game there was in plenty, sure testimony that man seldom came here; dense underbrush linked the towering trunks; there was not so much as a footprint in hundreds of square miles to reveal human occupancy.

Yet in the very midst of this deserted wilderness we came upon what we sought. We had abandoned the headwaters of the Mohawk and were following one of its middle branches, a shallow stream with pebbly, shelving banks, wading close inshore so as not to disturb the close-growing shrubbery. We all saw it simultaneously—a tattered, weather-stained fragment of canvas, caught on a snag in the current. I fished it out with my musket-barrel.

"A pack-cofer," declared Peter immediately.

"And safely identified," I added, putting my finger on an unmistakable thistle in green paint with three-quarters of a letter "M" above it.

A mile farther on Ta-wan-ne-ars exclaimed and pointed upward to the trunk of a tall elm. Partly shaded by the foliage of the lower boughs a deep blaze was revealed in the bark.

We waded ashore and investigated. The underbrush was as thick as elsewhere, but presently Peter gave a heave with his bull-like shoulders and a whole section of growths, which had been laced together with vines on a backing of boughs, lifted gate-fashion. Beyond stretched a narrow alley, whose carpet of grass showed it to be seldom traveled.

"If this be not the Doom Trail 'tis worth a look none the less," I whispered.

Peter nodded, and slipped through the opening. I followed him, and Ta-wan-ne-ars brought up the rear.

Here in this hidden path the forest noises became remote. Even the birds ceased to twitter overhead, and the slightest stirring of the treetops made us drop to earth in expectancy of attack. Yet when the attack came we were taken completely by surprize.

We had progressed some five miles from the beginning of the trail, and had reached a point where it forked—or perhaps I should say was joined by a second trail. At any rate the united trails continued into a beaver swamp, where they disappeared. We scouted the swamp, but could see no signs of a path across it; and Peter led the way to the right, intending to encircle it.

The beavers had thinned the timber hereabout and cut down most of the brushwood, so that we walked at ease between wide-spaced trunks. We were all of us alert, but the first warning that we were under observation was a green-feathered arrow which sang between Peter and me and buried its head in the ground.

"Don'dt fire, whatefer you do," muttered Peter as he threw himself behind the nearest trunk.

Ta-wan-ne-ars and I copied his example. I found myself on the right of the three. The others had selected standing trunks. I had chosen, perforce, a fallen giant which some forest wind had overthrown. I crawled along the trunk into the tangle of roots, and from there gained a clump of bushes growing about the hole from which it had been torn. I could see Ta-wan-ne-ars crouched behind his trunk, with his musket beside him and his tomahawk in his hand. Peter was concealed from view.

The green-feathered arrow had ceased quivering and I idly followed the angle of its inclination. My eyes traveled forward—and focused upon a hideous painted face which peered from a screen of sumac.

The watcher motioned behind him, and a second painted visage glided to his side. Ta-wan-ne-ars, seeking to draw their fire, thrust out the end of his scalp-lock, and the first watcher instantly drew bow and sent an arrow that grazed the trunk.

Nothing happened for a while. The Keepers waited, and Ta-wan-ne-ars and Peter remained under cover. I surveyed the situation. From the hole in which I lay a depression of the ground ran eastward past the lair of the Cahnuagas in the sumac clump. I started to crawl up it, dragging my musket after me, but before I had gone a dozen feet I was obliged to abandon the gun in order to insure that my progress should be silent.

Ta-wan-ne-ars, aware that I was up to something, called to Peter, and the two of them executed a series of feints which kept the Keepers occupied. When I was parallel with the sumac clump I sought shelter under a patch of wild blackberry-bushes. Cautiously parting my screen—which was exceedingly thorny and painful—I was able to view the Keepers from the rear. They were ensconced in what was evidently a permanent sentry-post. Beyond the sumacs was a low bark hut masked with boughs. At their feet were muskets. The bows they held were employed for the purpose of adding mystery to their attack.

So accustomed were the Keepers to the overpowering spell of the Doom Trail, which weakened the nerves of all trespassers, that they were wholly confident of the success of their tactics in first frightening us and afterward running us down at pleasure. They stood behind the sumac screen, their bushy feather head-dresses close together, grins of anticipation cracking the paint on their evil faces.

I worked myself a little more in rear of their position, then rose quietly and drew knife and tomahawk. I was an amateur at casting the ax, but this was no time for hesitation. I flung it with all my might, and yelled the nearest approach I could compass to the war-whoop.

The tomahawk struck one of the Keepers with the flat of its blade, felling him. The other savage turned quickly and loosed his arrow at me, aiming wide in his confusion. He stooped for his musket, but I was on him with my knife and he was forced to leap back and meet me on even terms. Ta-wan-ne-ars and Peter came running between the trees, whooping encouragement.