“Did you see any signs of a movement against the house, Nick?” demanded the major, when the three had been busily making their way, for several minutes, round the margin of the forest.

The Tuscarora turned, nodded his head, and glanced at Maud.

“Speak frankly, Wyandotte—­”

“Good!” interrupted the Indian with emphasis, assuming a dignity of manner the major had never before witnessed.  “Wyandotte come—­Nick gone away altogeder.  Nebber see Sassy Nick, ag’in, at Dam.”

“I am glad to hear this, Tuscarora, and as Maud says, you may speak plainly.”

“T’ink, den, best be ready.  Mohawk feel worse dan if he lose ten, t’ree, six scalp.  Injin know Injin feelin’.  Pale-face can’t stop red-skin, when blood get up.”

“Press on, then, Wyandotte, for the sake of God—­let me, at least, die in defence of my beloved mother!”

“Moder; good!—­Doctor Tuscarora, when death grin in face!  She my moder, too!”

This was said energetically, and in a manner to assure his listeners that they had a firm ally in this warlike savage.  Little did either dream, at that instant, that this same wayward being—­the creature of passion, and the fierce avenger of all his own fancied griefs, was the cause of the dreadful blow that had so recently fallen on them.

The sun still wanted an hour of setting, when Nick brought his companions to the fallen tree, by which they were again to cross the rivulet.  Here he paused, pointing to the roofs of the Hut, which were then just visible through the trees; as much as to say that his duty, as a guide, was done.

“Thank you, Wyandotte,” said Willoughby; “if it be the will of God to carry us safely through the crisis, you shall be well rewarded for this service.”

“Wyandotte chief—­want no dollar.  Been Injin runner—­now be Injin warrior.  Major follow—­squaw follow—­Mohawk in hurry.”

This was enough.  Nick passed out of the forest on a swift walk—­but for the female, it would have been his customary, loping trot—­followed by Willoughby; his arm, again, circling the waist of Maud, whom he bore along scarce permitting her light form to touch the earth.  At this instant, four or five conches sounded, in the direction of the mills, and along the western margin of the meadows.  Blast seemed to echo blast; then the infernal yell, known as the war-whoop, was heard all along the opposite face of the buildings.  Judging from the sounds, the meadows were alive with assailants, pressing on for the palisades.

At this appalling moment, Joyce appeared on the ridge of the roof, shouting, in a voice that might have been heard to the farthest point in the valley—­

“Stand to your arms, my men,” he cried; “here the scoundrels come; hold your fire until they attempt to cross the stockade.”

To own the truth, there was a little bravado in this, mingled with the stern courage that habit and nature had both contributed to lend the serjeant.  The veteran knew the feebleness of his garrison, and fancied that warlike cries, from himself, might counterbalance the yells that were now rising from all the fields in front of the house.