friendship dies....  I speak, having no knowledge.  But I believe it.  And, believing nobly of true love—­ in ignorance of it, but still in awe—­ and having been assailed by clamours of a shameful passion calling itself love—­ and having builded in my heart and mind a very lofty altar for the truth, how can I feel otherwise than sorry that you spoke—­ hotly, unthinkingly, as you did to me?”

I was silent.

She rose, lifted the lantern, laid open the trap-door.

“Come,” she whispered, beckoning.

I followed her as she descended, took the lantern from her hand, glanced at the shadowy heap, asleep perhaps, on the corner settle, then walked to the door and opened it.  A thousand, thousand stars were sparkling overhead.

On the sill she whispered: 

“When will you come again?”

“Do you want me?” I said sullenly.

She made no answer for a moment; suddenly she caught my hand and pressed it, crushing it between both of hers; and turning I saw her almost helpless with her laughter.

“Oh, what an infant have I found in this tall gentleman of Morgan’s corps!” said she.  “A boy one moment and a man the next—­ silly and wise in the same breath—­ headlong, headstrong, tender, and generous, petty and childish, grave and kind—­ the sacred and wondrous being, in point of fact, known to the world as man!  And now he asks, with solemn mien and sadly ruffled and reproachful dignity whether a poor, friendless, homeless, nameless girl desires his company again!”

She dropped my hand, caught at her skirt’s edge, and made me a mocking reverence.

“Dear sir,” she said, “I pray you come again to visit me tomorrow, while I am mending regimental shirts at tuppence each——­”

“Lois!” I said sadly.  “How can you use me so!”

She began to laugh again.

“Oh, Euan, I can not endure it if you’re solemn and sorry for yourself——­”

“That is too much!” I exclaimed, furious, and marched out, boiling, under the high stars.  And every star o’ them, I think, was laughing at the sorriest ass who ever fell in love.

Nevertheless, that night I wrote her name in my letter to Mr. Hake; and the ink on it was scarce sanded when an Oneida runner had it and was driving his canoe down the Mohawk River at a speed that promised to win for him the bonus in hard money which I had promised for a swift journey and a swift return.

And far into the July morning I talked with the Sagamore of Amochol and of Catharines-town; and he listened while he sat tirelessly polishing his scalping-knife and hatchet.

CHAPTER VIII

 Old friends

The sunrise gun awoke me.  I rolled out of my blanket, saw the white cannon-smoke floating above the trees, ran down to the river, and plunged in.

When I returned, the Sagamore had already broken his fast, and once more was engaged in painting himself—­ this time in a most ghastly combination of black and white, the startling parti-coloured decorations splitting his visage into two equal sections, so that his eyes gleamed from a black and sticky mask, and his mouth and chin and jaw were like the features of a weather-bleached skull.