Here the Tuscarora left the side of the stream, and came up on the rock, shaking hands, good-humouredly, with Mrs. Willoughby, who rather liked the knave; though she knew him to possess most of the vices of his class.

“He very han’som beaver-dam,” said Nick, sweeping his hand gracefully over the view; “bye ’nd bye, he’ll bring potatoe, and corn, and cider—­ all ’e squaw want.  Cap’in got good fort, too.  Old soldier love fort; like to live in him.”

“The day may come, Nick, when that fort may serve us all a good turn, out here in the wilderness,” Mrs. Willoughby observed, in a somewhat melancholy tone; for her tender thoughts naturally turned towards her youthful and innocent daughters.

The Indian gazed at the house, with that fierce intentness which sometimes glared, in a manner that had got to be, in its ordinary aspects, dull and besotted.  There was a startling intelligence in his eye, at such moments; the feelings of youth and earlier habit, once more asserting their power.  Twenty years before, Nick had been foremost on the war-path; and what was scarcely less honourable, among the wisest around the council-fire.  He was born a chief, and had made himself an outcast from his tribe, more by the excess of ungovernable passions, than from any act of base meanness.

“Cap’m tell Nick, now, what he mean by building such house, out here, among ole beaver bones?” he said, sideling up nearer to his employer, and gazing with some curiosity into his face.

“What do I mean, Nick?—­Why I mean to have a place of safety to put the heads of my wife and children in, at need.  The road to Canada is not so long, but a red-skin can make one pair of moccasins go over it.  Then, the Oneidas and Mohawks are not all children of heaven.”

“No pale-face rogue, go about, I s’pose?” said Nick, sarcastically.

“Yes, there are men of that class, who are none the worse for being locked out of one’s house, at times.  But, what do you think of the hut?—­You know I call the place the ‘Hut,’ the Hutted Knoll.”

“He hole plenty of beaver, if you cotch him!—­But no water left, and he all go away.  Why you make him stone, first; den you make him wood, a’ter; eh?  Plenty rock; plenty tree.”

“Why, the stone wall can neither be cut away, nor set fire to, Nick; that’s the reason.  I took as much stone as was necessary, and then used wood, which is more easily worked, and which is also drier.”

“Good—­Nick t’ought just dat.  How you get him water if Injen come?”

“There’s the stream, that winds round the foot of the hill, Nick, as you see; and then there is a delicious spring, within one hundred yards of the very gate.”

“Which side of him?” asked Nick, with his startling rapidity.

“Why, here, to the left of the gate, and a little to the right of the large stone—­”

“No—­no,” interrupted the Indian, “no left—­no right—­which side—­ inside gate; outside gate?”