There was another pause.  Gradually, the countenance of the Indian became less and less fierce, until it lost its expression of malignant resentment in one in which human emotions of a kinder nature predominated.

“Squaw good,” he said, even gently, waving his hand towards Mrs. Willoughby—­“Got son; love him like little baby.  Nick come six, two time before, runner from her son.”

“My son, Wyandotte!” exclaimed the mother—­“Bring you any tidings, now, from my boy?”

“No bring tidin’—­too heavy; Indian don’t love to carry load—­bring letter”

The cry from the three females was now common, each holding out her hand, with an involuntary impulse, to receive the note.  Nick drew the missive from a fold of his garment, and placed it in the hand of Mrs. Willoughby, with a quiet grace that a courtier might have wished to equal, in vain.

The note was short, and had been written in pencil, on a leaf torn from some book of coarse paper.  The handwriting however, was at once recognised as Robert Willoughby’s though there was no address, nor any signature.  The paper merely contained the following—­

“Trust to your defences, and to nothing else.  This party has many white men in it, disguised as Indians.  I am suspected, if not known.  You will be tampered with, but the wisest course is to be firm.  If Nick is honest, he can tell you more; if false, this note will be shown, even though it be delivered.  Secure the inner gates, and depend more on the house itself, than on the palisades.  Fear nothing for me—­my life can be in no danger.”

This note was read by each, in succession, Maud turning aside to conceal the tears that fell fast on the paper, as she perused it.  She read it last, and was enabled to retain it; and precious to her heart was the boon, at such a moment, when nearly every sensation of her being centred in intense feeling in behalf of the captive.

“We are told to inquire the particulars of you, Nick,” observed the captain; “I hope you will tell us nothing but truth.  A lie is so unworthy a warrior’s mouth!”

“Nick didn’t lie ’bout beaver dam!  Cap’in no find him good, as Indian say?”

“In that you dealt honestly, and I give you credit for it.  Has any one seen this letter but ourselves, yourself, and the person who wrote it?”

“What for ask?  If Nick say no, cap’in t’ink he lie.  Even fox tell trut’ some time; why not Injin?  Nick say no.”

“Where did you leave my son, and when?—­Where is the party of red-skins at this moment?”

“All pale-face in hurry!  Ask ten, one, four question, altogeder.  Well; answer him so.  Down here, at mill; down dere, at mill; half an hour, six, two, ten o’clock.”

“I understand you to say that major Willoughby was at the mill when you saw him last, and that this was only half an hour since?”

The Tuscarora nodded his head in assent, but made no other reply.  Even as he did this, his keen eyes rolled over the pallid faces of the females in a way to awaken the captain’s distrust, and he resumed his questions in a tone that partook more of the military severity of his ancient habits than of the gentler manner he had been accustomed to use of late years.