We then went back to bed, and like the two bad boys we were, slept prepared for flight.

II

“This is fine!” said Doctor Chantry, when we descended from the rough stage which had brought us across a corduroy trail, and found ourselves at the entrance of a spacious wooden tavern.  “When I passed Saratoga before there were only three log houses, and the inn had two rooms below and one above.  It was lighted by pine torches stuck in the chinks of the wall—­and see how candles shine through these windows!”

The tavern stood in a cleared place with miles of forest around it, and a marsh stretching near by.  Dusk could not prevent our seeing a few log habitations, one of them decorated with a merchant’s sign.  We entered among swarming crowds, a little world dropped into the backwoods.  This was more surprising because we had just left behind us a sense of wild things gathering to their night haunts, and low savage cries, and visions of moose and deer through far-off arches.

A man who appeared to be the host met us, his sprightly interest in our welfare being tempered by the consciousness of having many guests; and told us the house was full, but he would do what he could for us.

“Why is the house full?” fretted Doctor Chantry.  “What right have you, my dear sir, to crowd your house and so insure our discomfort?”

“None at all, sir,” answered the host good naturedly.  “If you think you can do better, try for lodgings at the store-keeper’s.”

“The store-keeper’s!” Doctor Chantry’s hysterical cry turned some attention to us.  “I shall do nothing of the kind.  I demand the best you have, sir.”

“The best I can give you,” amended our host.  “You see we are very full of politicians from Washington.  They crowd to the spring.”

My master turned his nose like the inflamed horn of a unicorn against the politicians from Washington, and trotted to the fireplace where blazing knots cheered a great tap-room set with many tables and benches.

And there rested Skenedonk in silent gravity, toasting his moccasins.  The Iroquois had long made Saratoga a gathering place, but I thought of this Oneida as abiding in St. Regis village; for our people did not come to the summer hunting in May.

Forgetting that I was a runaway I met him heartily, and the fawn eyes in his bald head beamed their accustomed luster upon me.  I asked him where my father and mother and the rest of the tribe were, and he said they had not left St. Regis.

“And why are you so early?” I inquired.

He had been at Montreal, and had undertaken to guide a Frenchman as far as Saratoga.  It is not easy to surprise an Indian.  But I wondered that Skenedonk accepted my presence without a question, quite as if he had himself made the appointment.