Here, through this partly cleared and planted valley of the Scoharie Kill, between the river and the lake, was now gathering a great concourse of troops and of people; and all the roads were lively with their comings and goings.  Every woodland rang with the racket of their saws and axes; over the log bridges rumbled their loaded transport wagons; road and trail were filled with their crowding cattle; the wheels of Eckerson’s and Becker’s grist mills clattered and creaked under the splash of icy, limpid waters, and everywhere men were hammering and sawing and splitting, erecting soldiers’ huts, huts for settlers, sheds, stables, store-houses, and barracks to shelter this motley congregation assembling here under the cannon of the Upper Fort, the Lower, and the Middle.

As we rode along, many faces we passed were familiar to us; we encountered officers from our own corps and from other regiments, with whom we were acquainted, and who greeted us gaily or otherwise, according to their temper and disposition.  But everybody—­ officers, troops, batt-men—­ looked curiously at our Siwanois Indian, who returned the compliment not at all, but with stately stride and expressionless visage moved straight ahead of him, as though he noticed nothing.

Twice since we had started at daybreak that morning, I had managed to lag behind and question him concerning the maid who now shared well-nigh every thought of mine—­ asking if he knew who she was, and where she came from, and why she journeyed, and whither.

He answered—­ when he replied at all—­ that he had no knowledge of these things.  And I knew he lied, but did not know how I might make him speak.

Nor would he tell me how and when she had slipped away from me the night before, or where she had likely gone, pretending that I had been mistaken when I told him I had seen him watching us beside the star-illumined stream.

“Mayaro slept,” he said quite calmly.  “The soldier, Mount, stood fire-guard.  Of what my brother Loskiel and this strange maiden did under the Oneida Dancers and the Belt of Tamanund, Mayaro has no knowledge.”

Why should he lie?  I did not know.  And even were I to attempt to confound his statement by an appeal to Mount, the rifleman must corroborate him, because doubtless the wily Siwanois had not awakened Mount to do his shift at sentry until the maid had vanished, leaving me sleeping.

“Mayaro,” I said, “I ask these things only because I pity her and wish her well.  It is for her safety I fear.  Could you tell me where she may have gone?”

“Fowls to the home-yard; the wild bird to the wood,” he said gravely.  “Where do the rosy-throated pigeons go in winter?  Does my brother Loskiel know where?”

“Sagamore,” I said earnestly, “this maid is no wild gypsy thing—­ no rose-tinted forest pigeon.  She has been bred at home, mannered and schooled.  She knows the cote, I tell you, and not the bush, where the wild hawk hangs mewing in the sky.  Why has she fled to the wilderness alone?”