At Guy Park, even, I had never seen an Iroquois relax in dignity and hauteur, though, of course, it was also true that Guy Johnson was never a man to inspire personal confidence or any intimacy.  Nor was Walter Butler either; and Brant and his Mohawks detested and despised him.

But I had been told that Indians—­ I mean the forest Indians, not the vile and filthy nomad butchers of the prairies—­ were like ourselves in our own families; and that, naturally, they were a kindly, warm-hearted, gay, and affectionate people, fond of their wives and children, and loyal to their friends.

Now, I could not but notice how, from the beginning, this Siwanois had conducted, and how, when first we met, his eye and hand met mine.  And ever since, also—­ even when I was watching him so closely—­ in my heart I really found it well-nigh impossible to doubt him.

He spoke always to me in a manner very different to that of any Indian I had ever known.  And now it seemed to me that from the very first I had vaguely realized a sense of unwonted comradeship with this Siwanois.

At all events, it was plain enough now that, for some reason unknown to me, this Mohican not only liked me, but so far trusted me—­ entertained, in fact, so unusual a confidence in me—­ that he even permitted himself to relax and speak to me playfully, and with the light familiarity of an elder brother.

“Sagamore,” I said, “my heart is very anxious for the safety of this little forest-running maid.  If I could find her, speak to her again, I think I might aid her.”

Mayaro’s features became smooth and blank.

“What maiden is this my younger brother fears for?” he asked mildly.

“Her name is Lois.  You know well whom I mean.”

“Hai!” he exclaimed, laughing softly.  “Is it still the rosy-throated pigeon of the forest for whom my little brother Loskiel is spreading nets?”

My face reddened again, but I said, smilingly: 

“If Mayaro laughs at what I say, all must be well with her.  My elder brother’s heart is charitable to the homeless.”

“And to children, also,” he said very quietly.  And added, with a gleam of humour, “All children, O Loskiel, my littlest brother!  Is not my heart open to you?”

“And mine to you, Mayaro, my elder brother.”

“Yet, you watched me at the fire, every night,” he said, with keenest delight sparkling in his dark eyes.

“And yet I tracked and caught you after all!” I said, smiling through my slight chagrin.

“Is my little brother very sure I did not know he followed me?” he asked, amused.

“Did you know, Mayaro?”

The Siwanois made a movement of slight, but good-humoured, disdain: 

“Can my brother who has no wings track and follow the October swallow?”

“Then you were willing that I should see the person to whom you brought food under the midnight stars?”