“Good to have moder”—­said Nick, kindly.  “Wyandotte got no squaw—­wife dead, moder dead, sister dead—­all gone to land of spirits—­bye’m-by, chief follow.  No one throw stone on his grave!  Been on death-path long ago, but cap’in’s squaw say ’stop, Nick; little too soon, now; take medicine, and get well.’  Squaw made to do good.  Chief alway like ’e squaw, when his mind not wild with war.”

“And your mind, Wyandotte, is not wild with war, now,” answered Mrs. Willoughby, earnestly.  “You will help a mother, then, to get her son out of the hands of merciless enemies?”

“Why you t’ink merciless?  Because pale-face dress like Injin, and try to cheat?”

“That may be one reason; but I fear there are many others.  Tell me, Wyandotte, how came you to discover that Robert was a prisoner, and by what means did he contrive to give you his letter?”

The Indian assumed a look of pride, a little blended with hauteur; for he felt that he was manifesting the superiority of a red-man over the pale-face, as he related the means through which he had made his discoveries.

“Read book on ground,” Nick answered gravely.  “Two book alway open before chief; one in sky, t’other on ground.  Book in sky, tell weather—­snow, rain, wind, thunder, lightning, war—­book on ground, tell what happen.”

“And what had this book on the ground to do with my son, Wyandotte?”

“Tell all about him.  Major’s trail first seen at mill.  No moccasin—­ much boot.  Soldier boot like letter—­say great deal, in few word.  First t’ink it cap’in; but it too short.  Den know it Major.”

“This sounds very well, Nick,” interrupted the captain, “though you will excuse me if I say it is going a little too far.  It seems impossible that you should know that the print of the foot was that of my son.  How could you be certain of this?”

“How could, eh?  Who follow trail from house, here, to Hudson river?  T’ink Nick blind, and can’t see?  Tuscarora read his book well as pale-face read bible.”  Here Nick looked round him a moment, raised his fore-finger, dropped his voice, and added earnestly—­“see him at Bunker Hill—­know him among ten, six, two t’ousand warrior.  Know dat foot, if meet him in Happy Hunting Ground.”

“And why my son’s foot, in particular?  The boot is often changed, can never be exactly like its predecessor, and one boot is so much like another, that to me the thing seems impossible.  This account of the boot, Nick, makes me distrust your whole story.”

“What distrust?” demanded the Indian like lightning.

“It means doubt, uncertainty—­distrust.”

“Don’t believe, ha?”

“Yes, that is it, substantially.  Don’t more than half believe, perhaps, would be nearer to the mark.”

“Why, ole soldier alway distrust; squaw nebber?  Ask moder—­ha!—­you t’ink Nick don’t know son’s trail—­handsome trail, like young chief’s?”