father, and mother, and sister.  Had Nick been a pale-face, of the class of those with whom he usually associated, his discovery would have gone through the settlement, with scoffings and exaggerations; but this forest gentleman, for such was Wyandotte, in spite of his degradation and numerous failings, had too much consideration to make a woman’s affections the subject of his coarseness and merriment.  The secrets of Maud would not have been more sacred with her own brother, had such a relative existed to become her confidant, than it was with Saucy Nick.

“Nick gal’s friend,” observed the Indian, quietly; “dat enough; what Nick say, Nick mean.  What Nick mean, he do.  Come, cap’in; time to quit squaw, and talk about war.”

At this hint, which was too plain to be misunderstood, captain Willoughby bade the Indian withdraw to the court, promising to follow him, as soon as he could hold a short conference with Joyce, who was now summoned to the council.  The subject of discussion was the manner in which the Tuscarora had passed the stockade, and the probability of his being true.  The serjeant was disposed to distrust all red-men, and he advised putting Nick under arrest, and to keep him in durance, until the return of light, at least.

“I might almost say, your honour, that such are orders, sir.  The advice to soldiers carrying on war with savages, tells us that the best course is to pay off treachery with treachery; and treachery is a red-skin’s manual exercise.  There is O’Hearn will make a capital sentinel, for the fellow is as true as the best steel in the army.  Mr. Woods’ room is empty, and it is so far out of the way that nothing will be easier than to keep the savage snug enough.  Besides, by a little management, he might fancy we were doing him honour all the while.”

“We will see, serjeant,” answered the captain.  “It has a bad appearance, and yet it may be the wisest thing we can do.  Let us first go the rounds, taking Nick with us for safety, and determine afterwards.”

Chapter XX.

  “His hand was stay’d—­he knew not why;
  ’Twas a presence breathed around—­
  A pleading from the deep-blue sky,
  And up from the teeming ground. 
  It told of the care that lavish’d had been
  In sunshine and in dew—­
  Of the many things that had wrought a screen
  When peril round it grew.”

  Mrs. Seba Smith.

The desertions gave not only the captain, but his great support and auxiliary, the serjeant, the gravest apprehensions.  A disposition of that nature is always contagious, men abandoning a failing cause much as rats are known to quit a sinking ship.  It is not a matter of surprise, therefore, that the distrust which accompanied the unexpected appearance of the Tuscarora, became associated with this falling off in the loyalty of the garrison, in the minds of the two old soldiers.