THE WATCHER

It was with emotion that Robert came to Albany, an emotion that was shared by his Onondaga comrade, Tayoga, who had spent a long time in a white school there.  The staid Dutch town was the great outpost of the Province of New York in the wilderness, and although his temperament was unlike that of the Dutch burghers he had innumerable pleasant memories of it, and many friends there.  It was, in his esteem, too, a fine town, on its hills over-looking that noble river, the Hudson, and as the little group rode on he noted that despite the war its appearance was still peaceful and safe.

Their way led along the main street which was broad and with grass on either side.  The solid Dutch houses, with their gable ends to the street, stood every one on its own lawn, with a garden behind it.  Every house also had a portico in front of it, on which the people sat in summer evenings, or where they visited with one another.  Except that it was hills where the old country was flat, it was much like Holland, and the people, keen and thrifty, had preserved their national customs even unto the third and fourth generations.  Robert understood them as he understood the Hodenosaunce, and, with his adaptable temperament, and with his mind that could understand so readily the minds of others, he was able to meet them on common ground.  As they rode into the city he looked questioningly at Willet, and the hunter, understanding the voiceless query, smiled.

“We couldn’t think of going to any other place,” he said.  “If we did we could never secure his forgiveness.”

“I shall be more than glad to see him.  A right good friend of ours, isn’t he, Tayoga?”

“Though his tongue lashes us his heart is with us,” replied the Onondaga.  “He is a great white chief, three hundred pounds of greatness.”

They stopped before one of the largest of the brick houses, standing on one of the widest and neatest of the lawns, and Robert and Tayoga, entering the portico, knocked upon the door with a heavy brass knocker.  They heard presently the rattle of chains inside, and the rumble of a deep, grumbling voice.  Then the two lads looked at each other and laughed, laughed in the careless, joyous way in which youth alone can laugh.

“It is he, Mynheer Jacobus himself, come to let us in,” said Robert.

“And he has not changed at all,” said Tayoga.  “We can tell that by the character of his voice on the other side of the door.”

“And I would not have him changed.”

“Nor would I.”

The door was thrown open, but as all the windows were closed there was yet gloom inside.  Presently something large, red and shining emerged from the dusk and two beams of light in the center of the redness played upon them.  Then the outlines of a gigantic human figure, a man tall and immensely stout, were disclosed.  He wore a black suit with knee breeches, thick stockings and buckled shoes, and his powdered hair was tied in a queue.  His eyes, dazzled at first by the light from without, began to twinkle as he looked.  Then a great blaze of joy swept over his face, and he held out two fat hands, one to the white youth and one to the red.