He stopped his horse, the Goodman came alongside, and the two men talked together in a low tone.  “Shall we go on as if we had not seen him?” asked the Goodman.  John Howland considered.

“If we turn back, the savage will be persuaded we have seen him and are afraid,” he said.  “We must e’en take our chance.  It may be he hath no evil intent, though the road be lonely and travelers few.  Whatever his purpose, it is safer to go on than to stand still,” and, tightening his rein, he boldly urged his horse across the open space.

Daniel’s heart thumped so loudly against his ribs that it sounded to his ears like a drum-beat as they crossed the clearing and entered the forest on the other side.  They had gone but a short distance into the woods when they were startled by the report of a gun, and poor Zeb fell off his horse and lay like one dead in the road.  For a moment they thought he had been shot, and the two men were about to spring to his rescue, when Zeb scrambled to his feet and began to run like one possessed.

“He is but scared to death.  Haply he hath never heard a gun go off before,” said John Howland, and, sticking his spurs into his horse, he gave chase.

Fleet of foot though he was, Zeb was no match for a horse and was soon overtaken.

“’T was but the Indian shooting the deer,” said John Howland, laughing in spite of himself at poor Zeb’s wild-eyed terror. “’T is a promise of safety for the present at least.  Nevertheless I like not the look of it.  The red-skin saw us; make no doubt of that; for when I first beheld him he was peering at us as though to fix our faces in his mind.”

“I, too, marked how he stared,” answered the Goodman, as he seized the cowering Zeb and swung him again to his seat on the pillion.

“I have it,” he said, stopping short as he was about to mount.  “The savage is without doubt of the Narragansett tribe.  He caught a glimpse of the dark skin of this boy and mistook him for an Indian lad—­one of the hated Pequots, who they thought were either all dead or sold out of the country.  ’T is likely they have no knowledge of other dark-skinned people than themselves.”

“It may be so,” said John Howland, doubtfully, “but ’t is as likely they mistook him for a devil.  It once befell that some Indians, finding a negro astray in the forest, were minded to destroy him by conjuring, thinking him a demon.  To be sure ’t is but a year since the Narragansetts helped the English destroy the Pequot stronghold, and the few Pequots who were neither killed nor sold they still hold in subjection.  Whatever their idea, it bodes no good either to Zeb or to us, for their enmity never sleeps.”

Zeb, meantime, sat clutching the pillion and looking from one grave face to the other as if he knew they were talking of him, and the Goodman patted his shoulder reassuringly as he mounted again.  They were now nearing a small settlement, and the path widened so the two horses could walk abreast.