Robert’s thoughts were of St. Luc, of the romantic figure he had seen in the wilderness after the battle of Lake George, the knightly chevalier, singing his gay little song of mingled sentiment and defiance.  An unconscious smile passed over his face.  He and St. Luc could never be enemies.  In very truth, the French leader, though an official enemy, had proved more than once the best of friends, ready even to risk his life in the service of the American lad.  What was the reason?  What could be the tie between them?  There must be some connection.  What was the mystery of his origin?  The events of the last year indicated to him very clearly that there was such a mystery.  Adrian Van Zoon and Master Benjamin Hardy surely knew something about it, and Willet too.  Was it possible that a thread lay in the hand of St. Luc also?

He turned his eyes from the coals and gazed at the impassive face of the hunter.  Once the question trembled on his lips, but he was sure the Great Bear would evade the answer, and the lad thought too much of the man who had long stood to him in the place of father to cause him annoyance.  Beyond a doubt Willet had his interests at heart, and, when the time came for him to speak, speak he would, but not before.

His mind passed from the subject to dwell upon the task they had set for themselves, a thought which did not exclude St. Luc, though the chevalier now appeared in the guise of a bold and skillful foe, with whom they must match their wisdom and courage.  Doubtless he had formed a new band, and, at the head of it, was already roaming the country south of the St. Lawrence.  Well, if that were the case perhaps they would meet once more, and he would have given much to penetrate the future.

“Why don’t you go to sleep, Robert?” asked the hunter.

“For the best of reasons.  Because I can’t,” replied the lad.

“Perhaps it’s well to stay awake,” said the Onondaga gravely.

“Why, Tayoga?”

“Someone comes.”

“Here in the ravine?”

“No, not in the ravine but on the cliff opposite us.”

Robert strained both eye and ear, but he could neither see nor hear any human being.  The wall on the far side of the ravine rose to a considerable height, its edge making a black line against the sky, but nothing there moved.

“Your fancy is too much for you, Tayoga,” he said.  “Thinking that someone might come, it creates a man out of air and mist.”

“No, Dagaeoga, my fancy sleeps.  Instead, my ear, which speaks only the truth, tells me a man is walking along the crest of the cliff, and coming on a course parallel with our ravine.  My eye does not yet see him, but soon it will confirm what my ear has already told me.  This deep cleft acts as a trumpet and brings the sound to me.”

“How far away, then, would you say is this being, who, I fear, is mythical?”

“He is not mythical.  He is reality.  He is yet about three hundred yards distant.  I might not have heard him, even with the aid of the cleft, but tonight Areskoui has given uncommon power to my ear, perhaps to aid us, and I know he is walking among thick bushes.  I can hear the branches swish as they fly back into place, after his body has passed.  Ah, a small stick popped as it broke under his foot!”