He laughed.  “Why not?  I like women.  Why scorn their garb?  But I see your reasons, monsieur.  They are better than mine.  So get out the clothing,—­though I shall look like an eel in a bear’s skin.”

But I had lost my haste.  Mock woman that he was, he was yet somewhat pleasant to the eye.  I had noticed more than once the picture that he made as he came and went among the trees.  Yet I thought lightly of myself for enjoying the deceit of my eyesight.  I rose.

“Wear your skirts, then, for a few days longer,” I said coldly.  “It is too dark to find what I want.  Come now.  We must sleep early, and be up betimes, for we shall take up our journey in the morning.”

We were astir at daybreak.  It was a red morning, and the birds were singing.  The air was keen, but the fire snapped cheerfully, and the sky gave promise of a warm day.  We carried the bales to the beach, and were ready for the canoes.  Then I missed the Englishman.  He had been aloof and moody during breakfast, and I searched for him with some alarm.

I found him in the hollow where he slept at night; he would not sleep near the rest of us, saying that we disturbed him with our snoring.  He was on his back, his gaze on the tree-tops, and he was frowning heavily.

I broke through the bushes.  “You are ill!”

He jumped to his feet.  “No, no, monsieur!  Ill only in mind. 
Monsieur, I have failed you.”

I had never seen his aplomb so shaken.  “Why were you lying on the ground?”

“To find out whether I could see again what I saw last night.  Do you see that balsam,—­the one with the forked top?  Monsieur, I saw an Indian’s face in that tree last night.”

I took his hands, which were cold.  “Now tell me.”

He drew his hands away.  “I am often awake in the night.  Last night the moon was clear.  All at once I saw an Indian’s face looking out from that tree.”

“And you did not call me!”

“Monsieur, I thought it must be fancy.  I have troubled dreams.  I often—­since my capture—­think I see an Indian, and it proves to be nothing but a bush.  So I distrust my eyes, especially at night.  Then Francois was on watch, and several times he walked this way.  If it had really been an Indian would not Francois have seen?”

I pointed him to the forest.  “Do you see anything?  We seem alone, yet there are countless eyes watching us, from the squirrel over your head to the Indian who may be listening now.  When you lay on your back just now did you see anything that looked like a face?”

He shook his head.  “No, the space was open.  But, monsieur, I have been over the ground.  I can find no track.”

I went to the balsam and examined it.  Then I called the Englishman and pointed to a patch of rubbed lichen on the bark above our heads.  “His foot slipped.  What was he like?  How was his hair dressed?”