I shook my head: "None."

"And Giants of Stone, and Flying Heads, and the Dead Hunter, and the Lake Serpent," he persisted sullenly.

"There never were either giants or witches," I replied.

The Mole looked up from his Testament in surprise, but said nothing.

Yet, by his expression I knew he was thinking of the Witch of Endor, and the Dukes of Edom, and the giants of the scriptures. But it seemed hopeless to modify his religious teachings by any self-developed theories of mine.

All I desired to do was to keep this pagan Huron from tampering with my warriors' nerves. And it required but little of the supernatural to accomplish this.

No Indian, however brave and faithful and wise in battle, however cunning and tireless and unerring on forest trail or on uncharted waters, could remain entirely undisturbed by any menace of invisible evil. For they were an impulsive race, ever curbing their impulses and blindly seeking for reason. But what appealed to their emotions and their imagination still affected them most profoundly, and hampered the slow, gradual, but steady development of a n.o.ble race emerging by its own efforts from absolute and utter ignorance.

I said quietly: "After all, the Master of Life stands sentry while the guiltless sleep!"

"Amen," said the Mole, lifting his calm eyes to the roof of leaves above.

An owl began to hoot--one of those great, fierce cat-owls of the North.

Every Indian listened.

The Sagamore said pleasantly to the Wyandotte:

"It is as though he were calling the lynxes together--as Amochol the Accursed summons his Cat-People to the sacrifice."

"I know nothing of Amochol and his sacrifices," said the Wyandotte carelessly.

"Yet you Wyandottes border the Western Gate."

The Huron shrugged.

"Hear the Eared One squall," said Grey-Feather, as the great owl yelled through the darkening forest.

"One would think to hear an Erie speaking," said the Sagamore, looking steadily at the Black-Snake. But the latter seemed totally unaware of what amounted now to a persistent baiting.

"They say," continued the Sagamore, "that the Erie priesthood learned from the Nez Perces a strange and barbarous fashion."

"What fashion?" asked Grey-Feather, so innocently that I could not determine whether he was playing into the Sagamore's hands.

"The fashion of wearing the hair in a short, stiff ridge," said the Mohican. "Has the Black-Snake ever seen it worn that way?"

"Never," said the Huron. And there was neither in his voice nor on his features the slightest tremour that we could discover in the fading light of the afterglow.

I rose to put an end to this, for my own nerves were now on edge; and I directed the two sentinels to their posts, the Wyandotte and the Oneida, Tahoontowhee.

Then I lay down beside the Mohican. All the Indians had unrolled and put on their hunting shirts; I spread my light blanket and pillowed my head on my pack.

In range of my vision the Mole had dropped to his knees and was praying with clasped hands. Shamed, I arose and knelt also, to say in silence my evening prayer, so often slurred over while I lay p.r.o.ne, or even entirely neglected.

Then I returned to my blanket to lie awake and think of Lois, until at last I dreamed of her. But the dream was terrible, and I awoke, sweating, and found the Sagamore seated upright in the darkness beside me.

"Is it time to change the guard?" I asked, still shivering from the horror of my dream.

"You have scarce yet closed your eyes, Loskiel."

"Why are you seated upright wide awake, my brother?"

"There is evil in the wind."

"There is no wind stirring."

"A witch-wind came slyly while you slept. Did you not dream, Loskiel?"

In spite of me I shivered again.

"That is foolishness," said I. "The Wyandotte's silly talk has made us wakeful. Our sentinels watch. Sleep, Mayaro."

"Have you need of sleep, Loskiel?"

"I? No. Sleep you, then, and I will sit awake if it rea.s.sures you."

The Sagamore set his mouth close to my ear:

"The Wyandotte is not posted where you placed him."

"What? How do you know?"

"I went out to see. He sits on a rock close to the water."

"d.a.m.n him," I muttered angrily. "I'll teach him----"

"No!"

The Mohican's iron grip held me in my place.

"The Night-Hawk understands. Let the Wyandotte remain unrebuked and undisturbed while I creep down to yonder ford."

"I do not intend to reconnoitre the ford until dawn," I whispered.

"Let me go, Loskiel."

"Alone?"

"Secretly and alone. The Siwanois is a magic clan. Their Sagamores see and hear where others perceive nothing. Let me go, Loskiel."

"Then I go, also."

"No."

"What of our blood-brotherhood, then?"