“Nebber open gate, ole Plin, till mistress tell you.  You stay here—­ dere; lean ag’in gate wid all you might; dere; now I go call Miss Maud.  She all alone in librarim, and will know what best.  Mind you lean ag’in gate well, ole Plin.”

Pliny the elder nodded assent, placed his shoulders resolutely against the massive timbers, and stood propping a defence that would have made a respectable resistance to a battering-ram, like another Atlas, upholding a world.  His duty was short, however, his ‘lady’ soon returning with Maud, who was hastening breathlessly to learn the news.

“Is it you, Nick?” called out the sweet voice of our heroine through the crevices of the timber.

The Tuscarora started, as he so unexpectedly heard those familiar sounds; for an instant, his look was dark; then the expression changed to pity and concern, and his reply was given with less than usual of the abrupt, guttural brevity that belonged to his habits.

“’Tis Nick—­Sassy Nick—­Wyandotte, Flower of the Woods,” for so the Indian often termed Maud.—­“Got news—­cap’in send him.  Meet party and go along.  Nobody here; only Wyandotte.  Nick see major, too—­say somet’ing to young squaw.”

This decided the matter.  The gate was unbarred, and Nick in the court in half-a-minute.  Great Smash stole a glance without, and beckoned Pliny the elder to join her, in order to see the extraordinary spectacle of Joel and his associates toiling in the fields.  When they drew in their heads, Maud and her companion were already in the library.  The message from Robert Willoughby had induced our heroine to seek this room; for, placing little confidence in the delicacy of the messenger, she recoiled from listening to his words in the presence of others.

But Nick was in no haste to speak.  He took the chair to which Maud motioned, and he sate looking at her, in a way that soon excited her alarm.

“Tell me, if your heart has any mercy in it, Wyandotte; has aught happened to Major Willoughby?”

“He well—­laugh, talk, feel good.  Mind not’ing.  He prisoner; don’t touch he scalp.”

“Why, then, do you wear so ominous a look—­your face is the very harbinger of evil.”

“Bad news, if trut’ must come.  What you’ name, young squaw?”

“Surely, surely, you must know that well, Nick!  I am Maud—­your old friend, Maud.”

“Pale-face hab two name—­Tuscarora got t’ree.  Some time, Nick—­ sometime, Sassy Nick—­sometime, Wyandotte.”

“You know my name is Maud Willoughby,” returned our heroine, colouring to the temples with a certain secret consciousness of her error, but preferring to keep up old appearances.

“Dat call you’ fader’s name, Meredit’; no Willoughby.”

“Merciful Providence! and has this great secret been known to you, too, Nick!”

“He no secret—­know all about him.  Wyandotte dere.  See Major Meredit’ shot. He good chief—­nebber flog—­nebber strike Injin.  Nick know fader, know moder—­know squaw, when pappoose.”