“A secret clan, common to all Northern and Western Indians, celebrating secret rites among the six nations of the Iroquois.  Some say the spectacle is worse than the orgies of the Dream-feast—­a frightful sight, truly hellish; and yet others say the False-Faces do no harm, but make merry in secret places.  But this I know; if the False-Faces are to decide for war or peace, they will sway the entire confederacy, and perhaps every Indian in North America; for though nobody knows who belongs to the secret sect, two-thirds of the Mohawks are said to be numbered in its ranks; and as go the Mohawks, so goes the confederacy.”

“How is it you know all this?” I asked, amazed.

“My playmate was Magdalen Brant,” she said.  “Her playmates were pure Mohawk.”

“Do you mean to tell me that this painted savage is kin to that lovely girl who came with Sir John and the Butlers?” I demanded.

“They are related.  And, cousin, this ‘painted savage’ is no savage if the arts of civilization which he learned at Dr. Wheelock’s school count for anything.  He was secretary to old Sir William.  He is an educated man, spite of his naked body and paint, and the more to be dreaded, it appears to me....  Hark!  See those branches moving beside the trail!  There is a man yonder.  Follow me.”

On the sandy bank our shoes made little sound, yet the unseen man heard us and threw up a glittering rifle, calling out:  “Halt! or I fire.”

Dorothy stopped short, and her hand fell on my arm, pressing it significantly.  Out into the middle of the trail stepped a tall fellow clad from throat to ankle in deer-skin.  On his curly head rested a little, round cap of silvery mole-skin, light as a feather; his leggings’ fringe was dyed green; baldrick, knife-sheath, bullet-pouch, powder-horn, and hatchet-holster were deeply beaded in scarlet, white, and black, and bands of purple porcupine-quills edged shoulder-cape and moccasins, around which were painted orange-colored flowers, each centred with a golden bead.

“A forest-runner,” she motioned with her lips, “and, if I’m not blind, he should answer to the name of Mount—­and many crimes, they say.”

The forest-runner stood alert, rifle resting easily in the hollow of his left arm.

“Who passes?” he called out.

“White folk,” replied Dorothy, laughing.  Then we stepped out.

“Well, well,” said the forest-runner, lifting his mole-skin cap with a grin; “if this is not the pleasantest sight that has soothed my eyes since we hung that Tory whelp last Friday—­and no disrespect to Mistress Varick, whose father is more patriot than many another I might name!”

“I bid you good-even, Jack Mount,” said Dorothy, smiling.

“To you, Mistress Varick,” he said, bowing the deeper; then glanced keenly at me and recognized me at the same moment.  “Has my prophecy come true, sir?” he asked, instantly.

“God save our country,” I said, significantly.