Then a startling thing occurred; up from the underbrush behind us rose a tall Indian warrior, naked to the waist, painted from belt to brow with terrific, nameless emblems and signs.  I sprang to my feet, horror-struck; the savage folded his arms, quietly smiling; and I saw knife and hatchet resting in his belt and a long rifle on the moss at his feet.

“Koue!  That was a true tale,” he said, in good English.  “It is a miracle that one among you sings the truth concerning us poor Mohawks.”

“Do you come in peace?” I asked, almost stunned.

He made a gesture.  “Had I come otherwise, you had known it!” He looked straight at Dorothy.  “You are the patroon’s daughter.  Does he speak as truthfully of the Mohawks as do you?”

“Who are you?” I asked, slowly.

He smiled again.  “My name is Brant,” he said.

“Joseph Brant!  Thayendanegea!” murmured Dorothy, aloud.

“A cousin of his,” said the savage, carelessly.  Then he turned sternly on me.  “Tell that man who follows me that I could have slain him twice within the hour; once at the ford, once on Stoner’s hill.  Does he take me for a deer?  Does he believe I wear war-paint?  There is no war betwixt the Mohawks and the Boston people—­yet!  Tell that fool to go home!”

“What fool?” I asked, troubled.

“You will meet him—­journeying the wrong way,” said the Indian, grimly.

With a quick, guarded motion he picked up his rifle, turned short, and passed swiftly northward straight into the forest, leaving us listening there together long after he had disappeared.

“That chief was Joseph Brant, ... but he wore no war-paint,” whispered my cousin.  “He was painted for the secret rites of the False-Faces.”

“He could have slain us as we sat,” I said, bitterly humiliated.

She looked up at me thoughtfully; there was not in her face the slightest trace of the deep emotions which had shocked me.

“A tribal fire is lighted somewhere,” she mused.  “Chiefs like Brant do not travel alone—­unless—­unless he came to consult that witch Catrine Montour, or to guide her to some national council-fire in the North.”

She pondered awhile, and I stood by in silence, my heart still beating heavily from my astonishment at the hideous apparition of a moment since.

“Do you know,” she said, “that I believe Brant spoke the truth.  There is no war yet, as far as concerns the Mohawks.  The smoke we saw was a secret signal; that hag was scuttling around to collect the False-Faces for a council.  They may mean war; I’m sure they mean it, though Brant wore no war-paint.  But war has not yet been declared; it is no scant ceremony when a nation of the Iroquois decides on war.  And if the confederacy declares war the ceremonies may last a fortnight.  The False-Faces must be heard from first.  And, Heaven help us!  I believe their fires are lighted now.”

“What ghastly manner of folk are these False-Faces?” I asked.