“Fled to Oswego with Sir John,” I said.

“And homeless!” she added, in a low, tense voice—­“homeless, without clothing, without food, save what Guy Johnson gives them; their women and children utterly helpless, the graves of their fathers abandoned, their fireplace at Onondaga cold, and the brands scattered for the first time in a thousand years I This have you Boston people done—­done already, without striking a blow.”

She turned her head proudly and looked straight at Sir George.

“Is it not the truth?” she asked.

“Only in part,” he said, gently.  Then, with infinite pains and delicacy, he told her of our government’s desire that the Iroquois should not engage in the struggle; that if they had consented to neutrality they might have remained in possession of their lands and all their ancient rights, guaranteed by our Congress.

He pointed out the fatal consequences of Guy Johnson’s councils, the effect of Butler’s lying promises, the dreadful results of such a struggle between Indians, maddened by the loss of their own homes, and settlers desperately clinging to theirs.

“It is not the Mohawks I blame,” he said, “it is those to whom opportunity has given wider education and knowledge—­the Tories, who are attempting to use the Six Nations for their own selfish and terrible ends!...  If in your veins run a few drops of Mohawk blood, my child, English blood runs there, too.  Be true to your bright Mohawk blood; be true to the generous English blood.  It were cowardly to deny either—­shameful to betray the one for the other.”

She gazed at him, fascinated; his voice swayed her, his handsome, grave face held her.  Whether it was reason or emotion, mind or heart, I know not, but her whole sensitive being seemed to respond to his voice; and as he played upon this lovely human instrument, varying his deep theme, she responded in every nerve, every breath.  Reason, hope, sorrow, tenderness, passion—­all these I read in her deep, velvet eyes, and in the mute language of her lips, and in the timing pulse-beat under the lace on her breast.

I rose and walked to the door.  She did not heed my going, nor did Sir George.

Under the oak-tree I found Murphy and Mount, smoking their pipes and watching Beacraft, who lay with his rough head pillowed on his arms, feigning slumber.

“Why did you mark so many houses with the red hatchet?” I asked, pleasantly.

He did not move a muscle, but over his face a deep color spread to the neck and hair.

“Murphy,” I said, “take that prisoner to General Schuyler!”

Beacraft sprang up, glaring at me out of bloodshot eyes.

“Shoot him if he breaks away,” I added.

From his convulsed and distorted lips a torrent of profanity burst as Murphy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and faced him eastward.  I drew the blue paper from my wallet, whispered to Murphy, and handed it to him.  He shoved it inside the breast of his hunting-shirt, cocked his rifle, and tapped Beacraft on the arm.