McDonald, mounted, naked claymore in his hand, came by, leading a company of his renegades.  He grinned at Boyd, and passed his basket-hilt around his throat with a significant gesture, then grinned again.

“Not yet, you Scotch loon!” said Boyd gently.  “I’ll live to pepper your kilted tatterdemalions so they’ll beg for the mercies of Glencoe!”

After that, for a long while only stragglers came limping by—­ lank, bloody, starved creatures, who never even turned their sick eyes on the people they passed among.

Then, after nearly half an hour, a full battalion of Johnson’s Greens forded the river, and behind them came Butler’s Rangers.

Old John Butler, squatting his saddle like a weather-beaten toad, rode by with scarcely a glance at the prisoners; and Greens and Rangers passed on through the village and out of sight to the northwest.

I had thought the defile was ended, when, looking back, I saw some Indians crossing the ford, carrying over a white officer.  At first I supposed he was wounded, but soon saw that he had not desired to wet his boots.

What had become of his horse I could only guess, for he wore spurs and sword, and the sombre uniform of the Rangers.

Then, as he came up I saw that he was Walter Butler.

As he approached, his dark eyes were fixed on the prisoners; and when he came opposite to them he halted.

Boyd returned his insolent stare very coolly, continuing to smoke his pipe.  Slowly the golden-brown eyes of Butler contracted, and into his pale, handsome, but sinister face crept a slight colour.

“So you are Boyd!” he said menacingly.

“Yes, I am Boyd.  What next?”

“What next?” repeated Walter Butler.  “Well, really I don’t know, my impudent friend, but I strongly suspect the Seneca stake will come next.”

Boyd laughed:  “We gave Brant a sign that you also should recognize.  We are now under his protection.”

“What sign?” demanded Butler, his eyes becoming yellow and fixed.  And, as Boyd carelessly repeated the rapid and mystical appeal, “Oh!” he said coolly.  “So that is what you count on, is it?”

“Naturally.”

“With me also?”

“You are a Mason.”

“Also,” snarled Butler, “I am an officer in his British Majesty’s service.  Now, answer the questions I put to you.  How many cannon did your Yankee General send back to Tioga after Catharines-town was burnt, and how many has he with him?”

“Do you suppose that I am going to answer your questions?” said Boyd, amused.

“I think you will, Come, sir; what artillery is he bringing north with him?”

And as Boyd merely looked at him with contempt, he stepped nearer, bent suddenly, and jerked Boyd to his feet.

“You Yankee dog!” he said; “Stand up when your betters stand!”

Boyd reddened to his temples.

“Murderer!” he said.  “Does a gentleman stand in the presence of the Cherry Valley butcher?” And he seated himself again on his log.