“The Ouleout,” whispered Tahoontowhee in my ear.  “Here is its confluence with the Susquehanna.”

The Mohican nodded, saying that we now stood on a peninsula.

I tried to make out the character of the hillock where we stood, but it was not yet light enough to see whether the place was capable of defence, although it would seem to be, having two streams to flank it.

“Sagamore,” said I, “you and I will stand guard for the first two hours.  Sleep, you others.”

One after another unrolled his blanket and dropped where he stood.  The Mohican came quietly toward me and sat down to watch the Susquehanna, his rifle across his knees.  As for me, I dared not sit, much less lie flat, for fear sleep would overpower me.  So I leaned against a rock, resting heavily on my rifle, and strained my sleepy eyes toward the invisible Ouleout.  A level stream of mist, slowly whitening, marked its course; and “The Voice that Continues” sounded dreamily among the trees that bordered its shallow flood of crystal.

Toward sunrise I caught the first glimmer of water; in fact, so near was I that I could hear the feeding trout splashing along the reaches, and the deer, one by one, retreating from the shore.

Birds that haunt woodland edges were singing, spite of their moulting fever; and I heard the Scarlet Tanager, the sweet call of the Crimson Cardinal, the peeping of the Recollet chasing gnats above the water, the lovely, linked notes of the White-throat trailing to a minor infinitely prolonged.

Greyer, greyer grew the woods; louder sang the birds; suddenly a dazzling shaft of pink struck the forest; the first shred of mist curled, detached itself, and floated slowly upward.  The sun had risen.

Against the blinding glory, looming gigantic in the mist, I saw the Sagamore, an awful apparition in his paint, turn to salute the rising sun.  Then, the mysterious office of his priesthood done, he lifted his rifle, tossed the heavy piece lightly to his shoulder, and strode toward me.

I shook the sleeping Oneidas, and, as they sprang to their feet, I pointed out their posts to them, laid my rifle on my sack, and dropped where I stood like a lump of lead.

I was aroused toward nine by the Mohican, and sat up as wide awake as a disturbed tree-cat, instantly ready for trouble.

“An Oneida on the Ouleout,” he said.

“Where?”

“Yonder—­ just across.”

“Friendly?”

“He has made the sign.”

“An ambassador?”

“A runner, not a belt-bearer.”

“Bring him to me.”

Strung along the banks of the Ouleout, each behind a tree, I saw my Indians crouching, rifles ready.  Then, on the farther bank, at the water’s shallow edge, I saw the strange Indian—­ a tall, spare young fellow, absolutely naked except clout, ankle moccasins, hatchet-girdle, and pouch; and wearing no paint except a white disc on his forehead the size of a shilling.  A single ragged frond hung from his scalp lock.