“So you ask me whether or not she still lives.  And I say to you that I do not know; only I judge by the boasting of that vile Erie Cat that she has bought her life of them by dreaming for their Red Priest.  And if she has done this thing, and has deceived them until this day, then it is very plain to me that they believe her to be a witch.  For it is true, Loskiel, that those who dream wield heavy influences among all Indians—­ and among the Iroquois in particular.  Yet, with all this, I doubt not that, if she truly be alive, her life hangs by a single thread, ever menaced by the bloody knife of Amochol.”

“I can not understand,” said I, “why she sent out no appeal during her long captivity.  Before this war broke, had her messengers to Lois gone to Sir William Johnson, or to Guy Johnson, with word that the Senecas held in their country a white woman captive, she had been released within a fortnight, I warrant you!”

“Loskiel, had that appeal gone out, and a belt been sent to Catharines-town from Johnstown or Guy Park, the Senecas would have killed her instantly and endured the consequences—­ even though Amherst himself was thundering on their Western Gate.”

“Are you sure, Mayaro?”

“Certain, Loskiel.  She could not have lived a single moment after the Senecas learned that she had sent out word of her captivity.  That is their law, which even Amochol could not break.”

“It was a mercy that our little Lois appealed not to His Excellency, so that the word ran through Canada by flag to Haldimand.”

“She might have done this,” said the Sagamore quietly.  “She asked me at Poundridge how this might be accomplished.  But when I made it clear to her that it meant her mother’s death, she said no more about it.”

“But pushed on blindly by herself,” I exclaimed, “braving the sombre Northland forests with her little ragged feet—­ half naked, hungry, friendless, and alone, facing each terror calmly, possessed only of her single purpose!  O Sagamore of a warrior clan that makes a history of brave deeds done, can you read in the records of your most ancient wampum a braver history than this?”

He said:  “Let what this maid has done be written in the archives of the white men, where are gathered the records of brave but unwise deeds.  So shall those who come after you know how to praise and where to pity our little rosy pigeon of the forest.  No rash young warrior of my own people, bound to the stake itself can boast of greater bravery than this.  And you, blood-brother to a Siwanois, shall witness what I say.”

After a silence I said:  “They must have passed Wyoming already.  At this hour our little Lois may be secure under the guns of Easton.  Do you not think so, Mayaro?”

As he made no answer, I glanced around at him and found him staring fixedly at the trail below us.

“What do you see on our back-trail?” I whispered.

“A man, Loskiel—­ if it be not a deer.”