I stretched out above the river bank, composing my body to rest—­ sleep perhaps.  But flies and sun kept me awake, even if I could have quieted my mind.

So up again, and walked to the hut door, where within I beheld the Sagamore gravely repainting himself with the terrific emblems of death.  He was seated cross-legged on the floor, my camp mirror before him—­ a superb specimen of manhood, naked save for clout, beaded sporran, and a pair of thigh moccasins, the most wonderful I had ever seen.

I admired his war-girdle and moccasins, speaking somewhat carelessly of the beautiful shell-work designs as “wampum”—­ an Iroquois term.

“Seawan,” he said coldly, correcting me and using the softer Siwanois term.  Then, with that true courtesy which ever seeks to ease a merited rebuke, he spoke pleasantly concerning shell-beads, and how they were made and from what, and how it was that the purple beads were the gold, the white beads the silver, and the black beads the copper equivalents in English coinage.  And so we conducted very politely and agreeably there in the hut, the while he painted himself like a ghastly death, and brightened the scarlet clan-symbol tatooed on his breast by touching its outlines with his brilliant paint.  Also, he rebraided his scalp-lock with great care, doubtless desiring that it should appear a genteel trophy if taken from him, and be an honour to his conqueror and himself.

These matters presently accomplished, he drew from their soft and beaded sheaths hatchet and knife, and fell to shining them up as industriously as a full-fed cat polishes her fur.

“Mayaro,” said I, amused, “is a battle then near at hand that you make so complete a preparation for it?”

A half-smile appeared for a moment on his lips: 

“It is always well to be prepared for life or death, Loskiel, my younger brother.”

“Oho!” said I, smiling.  “You understood the express rider when he said that Indians had fired on our pickets a week ago!”

The stern and noble countenance of the Sagamore relaxed into the sunniest of smiles.

“My little brother is very wise.  He has discovered that the Siwanois have ears like white men.”

“Aye—­ but, Sagamore, I was not at all certain that you understood in English more than ‘yes’ and ‘no.’”

“Is it because,” he inquired with a merry glance at me, “my brother has only heard as yet the answer ‘no’ from Mayaro?”

I bit my lip, reddened, and then laughed at the slyly taunting reference to my lack of all success in questioning him concerning the little maiden, Lois.

At the same time, I realized on what a friendly footing I already stood with this Mohican.  Few white men ever see an Iroquois or a Delaware laugh; few ever witness any relaxation in them or see their coldly dignified features alter, except in scorn, suspicion, pride, and anger.  Only in time of peace and amid their own intimates or families do our Eastern forest Indians put off the expressionless and dignified mask they wear, and become what no white man believes them capable of becoming—­ human, tender, affectionate, gay, witty, talkative, as the moment suits.