“Witch!” he cried, “get you to Yndaia.  If you stir elsewhere you shall burn!”

He had meant to say more, I think, but at that moment, from the southern woods men came reeling out into the fire-circle—­ ghastly, bloody, ragged creatures in shreds of uniforms, green, red, and brown—­ men and officers of Sir John’s regiment, men of Butler’s Rangers, British regulars.  On their heels glided the Seneca warriors, warriors of the Cayugas, Onondagas, Caniengas, Esauroras, and here and there a traitorous Oneida, and even a few Hurons.

Pell-mell this mob of fighting men came surging through the fire-circle, and straight into Catharines-town, while I and my Indians crouched there, appalled and astounded.

I saw Sir John Johnson come up with the officers of his two battalions and a captain, a sergeant, a corporal, and fifteen British regulars.

“Clear me out this ring of mummers!” he said in his cold, penetrating voice.  “And thou, Amochol, if this damned town of thine be stocked, bring out the provisions and set these Eries a-roasting corn!”

I saw McDonald storming and cursing at his irregulars, where the poor brutes had gathered into a wavering rank; I saw young Walter Butler haranguing his Rangers and Senecas; I saw Brant, calm, noble, stately, standing supported by two Caniengas while a third examined his wounded leg.

The whole place was a tumult of swarming savages and white men; already the Seneca women, crowding among the men, were raising the death wail.  The dancing girls huddled together in a frightened and half-naked group; the Andastes cowered apart; the servile Eries were staggering out of the corn fields laden with ripe ears; and the famished soldiers were shouting and cursing at them and tearing the corn from their arms to gnaw the raw and milky grains.

How we were to withdraw and escape destruction I did not clearly see, for our path must cross the eastern belt of forest, and it was still swarming with fugitives arriving, limping, dragging themselves in from the disaster of the Chemung.

Hopeless to dream of taking or slaying Amochol now; hopeless to think of warning Boyd or even of finding him.  Somewhere in the North he had met with obstacles which delayed him.  He must scout for himself, now, for the entire Tory army was between him and us.

“There is but one way now,” whispered the Mohican.

“By Yndaia,” I said.

My Indians were of the same opinion.

“I should have gone there anyway,” said Lois, still all a-quiver, and shivering close to my shoulder.  I put my arm around her; every muscle of her body was rigid, taut, yet trembling, as a smooth and finely turned pointer trembles with eagerness and powerful self-control.

“Amochol has driven her thither,” she whispered.  “Shall we not be on our way?”

“Can you lead, Mayaro?” I whispered.

The Mohican turned and crawled southward on his hands and knees, moving slowly.