“Nay,” observed Mrs. Willoughby, anxiously, “I do think he may have some intelligence!  It is now more than a twelvemonth since we have seen Nick.”

“It is more than twice twelvemonth, my dear; I have not seen the fellow’s face since I denied him the keg of rum for his ‘discovery’ of another beaver pond.  He has tried to sell me a new pond every season since the purchase of this.”

“Do you think he took serious offence, Hugh, at that refusal?  If so, would it not be better to give him what he asks?”

“I have thought little about it, and care less, my dear.  Nick and I know each other pretty well.  It is an acquaintance of thirty years’ standing, and one that has endured trials by flood and field, and even by the horse-whip.  No less than three times have I been obliged to make these salutary applications to Nick’s back, with my own hands; though it is, now, more than ten years since a blow has passed between us.”

“Does a savage ever forgive a blow?” asked the chaplain, with a grave air, and a look of surprise.

“I fancy a savage is quite as apt to forgive it, as a civilized man, Woods.  To you, who have served so long in His Majesty’s army, a blow, in the way of punishment, can be no great novelty.”

“Certainly not, as respects the soldiers; but I did not know Indians were ever flogged.”

“That is because you never happened to be present at the ceremony—­but, this is Nick, sure enough; and by his trot I begin to think the fellow has some message, or news.”

“How old is the man, captain?  Does an Indian never break down?”

“Nick must be fairly fifty, now.  I have known him more than half that period, and he was an experienced, and, to own the truth, a brave and skilful warrior, when we first met.  I rate him fifty, every day of it.”

By this time the new-comer was so near, that the conversation ceased, all standing gazing at him, as he drew near, and Maud gathering up her hair, with maiden bashfulness, though certainly Nick was no stranger.  As for Little Smash, she waddled off to proclaim the news to the younger Pliny, Mari, and Great Smash, all of whom were still in the kitchen of the Hut, flourishing, sleek and glistening.

Soon after, Nick arrived.  He came up the Knoll on his loping trot, never stopping until he was within five or six yards of the Captain, when he suddenly halted, folded his arms, and stood in a composed attitude, lest he should betray a womanish desire to tell his story.  He did not even pant but appeared as composed and unmoved, as if he had walked the half-mile he had been seen to pass over on a trot.

“Sago—­Sago,” cried the captain, heartily—­“you are welcome back, Nick; I am glad to see you still so active.”

“Sago”—­answered the guttural voice of the Indian, who quietly nodded his head.

“What will you have to refresh you, after such a journey, Nick—­our trees give us good cider, now.”