Suddenly their movements ceased, and I clutched the Mohican’s arm, as a swift file of shadows passed in silhouette along the river’s brink, one after another moving west—­ fifteen ghostly figures dimly seem but unmistakable.

“Senecas,” breathed the Mohican.

The war party defiled at a trot, disappearing against the fringing gloom.  And after them loped the Andastes pack, scurrying, hurrying, running into thickets and out again, but ever hastening along the flanks of their silent and murderous masters, who seemed to notice them not at all.

When they had gone, the Mohican aroused the Oneidas, and all night long we lay there behind the rocks, rifles in rest, watching the river.

What we awaited came with the dawn, and, in the first grey pallour of the breaking day, we saw their advanced guard; Cayugas and Senecas of the fierce war-chief Hiokatoo, every Indian stripped, oiled, head shaved, and body painted for war; first a single Cayuga, scouting swiftly; then three furtive Senecas, then six, then a dozen, followed by their main body.

Doubtless they had depended on the Andastes and advanced guard of Senecas for flankers, for the main body passed without even a glance up at the hilly ground where we lay watching them.

Then there was a break in the line, an interval of many minutes before their pack horses appeared, escorted by green-coated soldiers.

And in the ghostly light of dawn, I saw Sir John Johnson riding at the head of his men, his pale hair unpowdered, his heavy, colourless face sunk on his breast.  After him, in double file, marched his regiment of Greens; then came more Indians —­ Owagas, I think —­ then that shameless villain, McDonald, in bonnet and tartan, and the heavy claymore a-swing on his saddle-bow, and his blue-eyed Indians swarming in the rear.

Lord, what a crew!  And as though that were not enough to affront the rising sun, comes riding young Walter Butler, in his funereal cloak, white as a corpse under the black disorder of his hair, and staring at nothing like a damned man.  On his horse’s heels his ruffianly Rangers marched in careless disorder but with powerful, swinging strides that set their slanting muskets gleaming like ripples glinting athwart a windy pond, and their canteens all a-bobbing.

Then, hunched on his horse, rode old John Butler—­ squat, swarthy, weather-roughened, balancing on his saddle with the grace of a chopping block; and after him more Rangers crowding close behind.

Behind these, quite alone, stalked an Indian swathed in a scarlet blanket edged with gold, on which a silver gorget glittered.  He seemed scarce darker than I in colour; and if he wore paint I saw none.  There was only a scarlet band of cloth around his temples, and the flight-feather of the white-crested eagle set there low above the left ear and slanting backward.

“Brant!” I whispered to the Sagamore; and I saw him stiffen to very stone beside me; and heard his teeth grate in his jaws.