He got to his feet and went outside.  A pitiful little yelp behind him caused him to whirl about and dart inside again.

“Hands off my dog!” he cried in a voice that caused the Kakisas to fall back in affright.

There was a little light from the fire.  Their attitude was conciliatory.  In their own language they sought to explain.  One pointed to a kind of pannier of birch-bark hanging from a teepee pole, whence issued a violent scratching.

“Let him out!” cried Ambrose.

They expostulated with him.  None made any move to obey.

“Let him out!” commanded Ambrose, “or I’ll smash something!”

Watusk, attracted by the noise, stuck his head in.  The matter was explained to him.  Lifting the cover of the pannier, he exhibited the frightened but unharmed Job to his master.

“Him all right,” he said soothingly.  “Let be.  We got mak’ new camp to-night.  Can’t tak’ no dogs.  Him come wit’ women to-morrow.”

Ambrose did not believe him, of course; but if help were really so near, he felt it would be suicidal to provoke a conflict at this moment.  Apparently they intended the dog no harm.  He assumed to be contented with Watusk’s explanation.

“Good dog,” he said to Job.  “You’re all right.  Lie down.”

Ambrose mounted, and they tied him on as usual.  On every hand he could see men mounting and riding out of the village.  His heart slowly rose into his throat.

Could it be meant that he was to take part in a night attack on the police?  Surely the redcoats would never allow themselves to be surprised!  Anyhow, if he was to be present, it would be strange if he could not help his own in some way.

His horse was led up the hill, off at right angles to the village.  Watusk remained near him.  As they rose to higher ground the moon came into view, hanging above the tree-tops across the valley, preparatory to sinking out of sight.

In its light the objects around him were more clearly revealed.  Apparently the riders were straggling to a rendezvous.  There was no haste.  The terrible depression which had afflicted Ambrose since Nesis had disappeared was dissipated by the imminence of a great event.

He lived in the moment.  Out of the tail of his eye he observed Watusk’s mount, a lustrous black stallion, the finest piece of horseflesh he had seen in the north.

Ambrose heard a confused murmur ahead.  Rising over the edge of the hill he saw its cause.  A great body of horses was gathered close together on the prairie, each with its rider standing at its head.

The animals jostled each other, bit and squealed, stamped their forefeet, and tossed their manes.  The men were silent.  It made a weird scene in the fading moonlight.

Men and horses partook of a ghostly quality; the faces nearest him blank, oval patches, faintly phosphorescent, were like symbols of the tragedy of mankind.