Daganoweda, as much a Viking as any that ever lived in Scandinavia, lay down among his men and went quickly to the home over which Tarenyawagon presided.  Haace, filled with exultation that he had received the high approval of his chief, slid away among the trees on another scout, and, in like manner, the forest swallowed up Black Rifle.  Once more the camp was absolutely silent, only the thin and shadowy figures of the bronze sentinels showing through the misty gloom.  Robert lay down again and Tarenyawagon, the sender of dreams, held him in his spell.  His excited brain, even in sleep, was a great sensitive plate, upon which pictures, vivid and highly colored, were passing in a gorgeous procession.

Now, Tarenyawagon carried him forward and not back.  They met St. Luc in battle, and it was dark and bloody.  How it ended he did not know, because a veil was dropped over it suddenly, and then he was in the forest with Tayoga, fleeing for his life once more from Tandakora, De Courcelles and their savage band.  Nor was it given to him to know how the pursuit ended, because the veil fell again suddenly, and when it was lifted he was in a confused and terrible battle not far from a lake, where French soldiers, American soldiers and English soldiers were mingled in horrible conflict.  For some strange reason, one that he wondered at then, he stood among the French, but while he wondered, and while the combat increased in ferocity the veil slipped down and it was all gone like a mist.  Then came other pictures, vivid in color, but vague in detail, that might or might not be scenes in his future life, and he awoke at last to find the dawn had come.

Tayoga was already awake and handed him a piece of venison.

“Eat, Dagaeoga,” he said, “and drink at the little spring in the wood on our right.  I have learned what Haace and Black Rifle saw in the night, and we march in half an hour.”

Robert did more than drink at the spring; he also bathed his face, neck and hands at the little brook that ran away from it, and although Tarenyawagon had been busy shifting his kaleidoscope before him while he slept, he was as much refreshed as if he had slumbered without dreams.  The dawn, clear but hot in the great forest, brought with it zeal and confidence.  They would follow on the trail of the French and Indian leaders, and he believed, as surely as a battle came, that Willet, Rogers, Daganoweda and their men would be the victors.

As soon as the brief and cold breakfast was finished the hundred departed silently.  The white rangers wore forest dress dyed green that blended with the foliage, and the Mohawks still wore scarcely anything at all.  It was marvelous the way in which they traveled, and it would not have been possible to say that white man or red man was the better.  Robert heard now and then only the light brush of a moccasin.  A hundred men flitted through the greenwood and they passed like phantoms.