This time all the colour fled the man’s face, and it was some moments before the sudden, unreasoning rush of terror in that bruised mind had subsided sufficiently for him to compose his thoughts.  Little by little, however, he came to himself again, dimly conscious that he trusted us—­ perhaps the first strangers or even neighbours whom he had trusted in years.

“Yes, sir, I know him,” he said in a low voice.

“Where is he?”

“Below—­ on our service.”

But it was Luther Kinnicut, the spy, whom we had come to interview, as well as to see Major Lockwood, and Boyd frowned thoughtfully.

I said:  “The Indians hereabout are Mohican, are they not, Mr. Hays?”

“They were,” he replied; and his very apathy gave the answer a sadder significance.

“Have they all gone off?” asked Boyd, misunderstanding.

“There were very few Mohicans to go.  But they have gone.”

“Below?”

“Oh, no, sir.  They and the Stockbridge Indians, and the Siwanois are friendly to our party.”

“There was a Sagamore,” I said, “of the Siwanois, named Mayaro.  We believe that Luther Kinnicut knows where this Sagamore is to be found.  But how are we to first find Kinnicut?”

“Sir,” he said, “you must ask Major Lockwood that.  I know not one Indian from the next, only that the savages hereabout are said to be favourable to our party.”

Clearly there was nothing more to learn from this man.  So we thanked him and strapped on our accoutrements, while he went away to the barn to bring up our horses.  And presently our giant rifleman appeared leading the horses, and still munching a bough-apple, scarce ripe, which he dropped into the bosom of his hunting shirt when he discovered us watching him.

Boyd laughed:  “Munch away, Jack, and welcome,” he said, “only mind thy manners when we sight regular troops.  I’ll have nobody reproaching Morgan’s corps that the men lack proper respect—­ though many people seem to think us but a parcel of militia where officer and man herd cheek by jowl.”

On mounting, he turned in his saddle and asked Hays what we had to fear on our road, if indeed we were to apprehend anything.

“There is some talk of the Legion Cavalry, sir—­ Major Tarleton’s command.”

“Anything definite?”

“No, sir—­ only the talk when men of our party meet.  And Major Lockwood has a price on his head.”

“Oh!  Is that all?”

“That is all, sir.”

Boyd nodded laughingly, wheeled his horse, and we rode slowly out into the Bedford Road, the mounted rifleman dogging our heels.

From every house in Bedford we knew that we were watched as we rode; and what they thought of us in our flaunting rifle dress, or what they took us to be—­ enemy or friend—­ I cannot imagine, the uniform of our corps being strange in these parts.  However, they must have known us for foresters and riflemen of one party or t’other; and, as we advanced, and there being only three of us, and on a highway, too, very near to the rendezvous of an American dragoon regiment, the good folk not only peeped out at us from between partly closed shutters, but even ventured to open their doors and stand gazing after we had ridden by.