“Then,” said the hunter, “we’d better stand up, and be ready with our weapons.  I’ve no wish to be trodden to death by a mad bull moose, just when I’m feeling so happy and so contented with the world.”

“The Great Bear’s advice is good,” said Tayoga, and the three took it.  The approaching tread grew heavier, and the largest moose that Robert had ever seen, pushing his way through the bushes, stood looking at the fire, and those who had built it.  He was a truly magnificent specimen, and Tayoga had been right in calling him a lord of the forest, but his eyes were red and inflamed and his look was menacing.

“Mad!  Quite mad!” whispered the hunter.  “He sees us, but he doesn’t admire us.  He hates us, and he isn’t afraid of us.”

The three moved softly and discreetly into a place where both trees and bushes were so dense that the moose could not get at them.

“What troubles him?” asked Robert.

“I don’t know,” said the hunter.  “He may be suffering yet from a wound by an Indian arrow, or he may have a spell of some kind.  We can be certain only that he’s raging mad, every inch of him.  Look at those great sharp hoofs of his, Robert.  I’d as soon be struck with an axe.”

The moose, after some hesitation, rushed into the glade, leaped toward the fire, leaped back again, pawed and trampled the earth in a terrible convulsion of rage, and then sprang away, crashing through the forest.  They heard the beat of his hoofs a long time, and when the sound ceased they returned and resumed their seats by the fire.

“That moose was a great animal,” said Tayoga with irony, “but his mind was the mind of a little child.  He did nothing with his strength and agility but tear the earth and tire himself.  Now he runs away among the trees, scratching his body with bushes and briars.”

“At any rate, he was an important visitor, Tayoga,” said the hunter, “and since we’ve had a good look at him we’re glad he’s gone away.  I think it likely now that all who wanted to look at us have had their look, and we might go to sleep.  How are your leaves, Robert?”

“Fine and soft.  They make a splendid bed, and I’m off to slumberland.”

He pushed up the leaves at one end of his couch high enough to form a pillow, and stretched himself luxuriously.  The night was turning cold, but he had his blanket, and there was the fire.  He felt as comfortable as at the Inn of the Eagle in Quebec, and freer from plots and danger.

They were allowing the fire to die now, but the coals would glow for a long time, and Robert looked at them sleepily.  His feeling of coziness and content increased, and presently he slept.  The hunter soon followed him, but Tayoga slept not at all.  His subtle Indian instinct warned him not to do so.  For the Onondaga the forest was not free now from danger, and he would watch while his white friends slept.