The Indian was found standing beneath the arch of the gateway, upright, motionless, and patient.  A lantern was kept burning here, the place being used as a sort of guard-house; and, by its light, it was easy to perceive the state of the still unhung leaf of the passage.  This leaf, however, was propped in its place, by strong timbers; and, on the whole, many persons would think it the most secure half of the gate.  Captain Willoughby observed that the Indian was studying this arrangement when he entered the place himself.  The circumstance caused him uneasiness, and quickened his determination to secure the Indian.

“Well, Nick,” he said, concealing his intention under an appearance of indifference, “you see our gates are well fastened, and steady hands and quick eyes will do the rest.  It is getting late, and I wish to have you comfortably lodged before I lie down myself.  Follow me, and I will show you to a place where you will be at your ease.”

The Tuscarora understood the captain’s object the instant he spoke of giving him comfortable lodgings, a bed being a thing that was virtually unknown to his habits.  But, he raised no objections, quietly treading in the other’s footsteps, until both were in the bed-room of the absent Mr. Woods.  The apartments of the chaplain were above the library, and, being in the part of the house that was fortified by the cliff, they had dormer windows that looked toward the forest.  The height of these windows the captain thought would be a sufficient security against flight; and by setting Mike and one of the Plinys on the look-out, to relieve each other at intervals of four hours, he thought the Tuscarora might be kept until the return of light.  The hour when he most apprehended danger was that which just precedes the day, sleep then pressing the heaviest on the sentinel’s eyelids, and rest having refreshed the assailants.

“Here, Wyandotte, I intend you shall pass the night,” said the captain, assuming as much courtesy of manner as if he were doing the honours of his house to an invited and honoured guest.  “I know you despise a bed, but there are blankets, and by spreading them on the floor, you can make your own arrangements.”

Nick made a gesture of assent, looking cautiously around him, carefully avoiding every appearance of curiosity at the same time, more in pride of character, however, than in cunning.  Nevertheless, he took in the history of the locality at a glance.

“It is well,” he said; “a Tuscarora chief no t’ink of sleep.  Sleep come standing, walking; where he will, when he will.  Dog eats, den lie down to sleep; warrior always ready.  Good bye, cap’in—­to-morrow see him ag’in.”

“Good night, Nick.  I have ordered your old friend Mike, the Irishman, to come and sit in your room, lest you might want something in the night.  You are good friends with Mike, I believe; I chose him on that account.”

The Indian understood this, too; but not an angry gleam, no smile, nor any other sign, betrayed his consciousness of the captain’s motives.