I said:  “The Siwanois are free people.  No lodge door is locked on them, not even in the Long House.  They are at liberty to come and go as the eight winds rise and wane—­ to sleep when they choose, to wake when it pleases them, to go forth by day or night, to follow the war-trail, to strike their enemies where they find them.

“But now, to one of them—­ to the Mohican Mayaro, Sagamore of the Siwanois, Sachem of the Enchanted Clan, is given the greatest mission ever offered to any Delaware since Tamenund put on his snowy panoply of feathers and flew through the forest and upward into the air-ocean of eternal light.

“A great army of his embattled brothers trusts in him to guide them so that the Iroquois Confederacy shall be pierced from Gate to Gate, and the Long House go roaring up in flames.

“There are many valiant deeds to be accomplished on this coming march—­ deeds worthy of a war-chief of the Lenni-Lenape—­ deeds fitted to do honour to a Sagamore of the Magic Wolf.

“I only ask of my friend and blood-brother that he reserve himself for these great deeds and not risk a chance bullet in ambush for the sake of an Erie scalp or two—­ for the sake of a patch of mangy fur which grows on these Devil-Cats of Amochol.”

At first his countenance was smooth and blank; as I proceeded, he became gravely attentive; then, as I ended, he gave me a quick, unembarrassed, and merry look.

“Loskiel,” he said laughingly, “Mayaro plays with the Cat-People.  A child’s skill only is needed to take their half-shed fur and dash them squalling and spitting and kicking into Biskoonah!”

He resumed his painting with a shrug of contempt, adding: 

“Amochol rages in vain.  Upon this wizard a Mohican spits!  One by one his scalped acolytes tumble and thump among the dead and bloody forest leaves.  The Siwanois laugh at them.  Let the red sorcerer of the Senecas make strong magic so that his cats return to life, and the vile fur grows once more where a Mohican has ripped it out!”

“Each night you go forth and scalp.  Each morning you paint.  Is this to continue, Sagamore?”

“My brother sees,” he said proudly.  “Cats were made for skinning.”

There was nothing to do about it; no more to be said.  I now comprehended this, as I stood lacing my rifle-shirt and watching him at his weird self-embellishment.

“The war-paint you have worn each day has seemed to me somewhat unusual,” I said curiously.

He glanced sharply up at me, scowled, then said gravely: 

“When a Sagamore of the Mohicans paints for a war against warriors, the paint is different.  But,” he added, and his eyes blazed, and the very scalp-lock seemed to bristle on his shaven head, “when a Lenape Sachem of the Enchanted Clan paints for war with Seneca sorcerers, he wears also the clean symbols of his sacred priesthood, so that he may fight bad magic with good magic, sorcery with sorcery, and defy this scarlet priest—­ this vile, sly Warlock Amochol!”