“No, I don’t,” I replied, coldly.

“Then I’ll tell you.  The General is trying to head off Walter Butler and arrest him.  Murphy and Elerson have just heard that Walter Butler’s mother and sister, and a young lady, Magdalen Brant—­you met her at Varicks’—­are staying quietly at the house of a Tory named Beacraft.  We must strive to catch him there; and, failing that, we must watch Magdalen Brant, that she has no communication with the Iroquois.”  He hesitated, head bent.  “You see, the General believes that this young girl can sway the False-Faces to peace or war.  She was once their pet—­as a child....  It seems hard to believe that this lovely and cultivated young girl could revert to such savage customs....  And yet Murphy and Elerson credit it, and say that she will surely appear at the False-Faces’ rites....  It is horrible, Ormond; she is a sweet child—­by Heaven, she would turn a European court with her wit and beauty!”

“I concede her beauty,” I said, uneasy at his warm praise, “but as to her wit, I confess I scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her that night, and so am no judge.”

“Ah!” he said, with an absent-minded stare.

“I naturally devoted myself to my cousin Dorothy,” I added, irritated, without knowing why.

“Quite so—­quite so,” he mused.  “As I was saying, it seems cruel to suspect Magdalen Brant, but the General believes she can sway the Oneidas and Tuscaroras....  It is a ghastly idea.  And if she does attempt this thing, it will be through the infernal machinations and devilish persuasions of the Butlers—­mark that, Ormond!”

He turned short in his tracks and made a fierce gesture with his stick.  It broke short, and he flung the splintered ends into the darkness.

“Why,” he said, warmly, “there is not a gentler, sweeter disposition in the world than Magdalen Brant’s, if no one comes a-tampering to wake the Iroquois blood in her.  These accursed Butlers seem inspired by hell itself—­and Guy Johnson!—­What kind of a man is that, to take this young girl from Albany, where she had forgotten what a council-fire meant, and bring her here to these savages—­sacrifice her!—­undo all those years of culture and education!—­rouse in her the dormant traditions and passions which she had imbibed with her first milk, and which she forgot when she was weaned!  That is the truth, I tell you!  I know, sir!  It was my uncle who took her from Guy Park and sent her to my aunt Livingston.  She had the best of schooling; she was reared in luxury; she had every advantage that could be gained in Albany; my aunt took her to London that she might acquire those graces of deportment which we but roughly imitate....  Is it not sickening to see Guy Johnson and Sir John exercise their power of relationship and persuade her from a good home back to this?...  Think of it, Ormond!”

“I do think of it,” said I.  “It is wrong—­it is cruel and shameful!”