These things I had heard, but vaguely, here and there—­ a word perhaps at Johnson Hall, a whisper at Fort Johnson, rumours discussed at Guy Park and Schenectady when I was young.  But ever the same horror of it filled me, though I believed it not, knowing full well there were no witches, sorcerers, or warlocks in the world; yet, in my soul disturbed concerning what might pass deep in the shadows of that viewless Empire.

“Mayaro,” I said seriously, “do you go instantly to the fort and view those scalps.”

“Were the braids fastened at the roots with tree-cat claws?”

“Aye!”

“No need to view them, then, Loskiel.”

“Are they truly Erie?”

“Cats!” He spat the word from his lips and his eyes blazed.

“And—­ Amochol!” I asked unsteadily.

“The Cat People creep with the Seneca high priest, mewing under the moon.”

“Then—­ he is surely here?”

“Aye, Loskiel.”

“God!” said I, now all a-quiver; “only to slay him!  Only to end this demon-thing, this poison spawn of the Woman-Toad!  Only to glimpse his scarlet rags fairly along my rifle sight!”

“No bullets touch him.”

“That is nonsense, Mayaro——­”

“No, Loskiel.”

“I tell you he is human!  There are no sorcerers on earth.  There never were—­ except the Witch of Endor——­”

“I never heard of her.  But the Witch of Catharines-town is living.  And her warlock offspring, Amochol!” He squared his broad shoulders, shaking them.  “What do I care?” he said.  “I am a Sagamore of the Enchanted Clan!” He struck the painted symbol on his chest.  “What do I care for this red priest’s sorcery—­ I, who wear the great Witch Bear rearing in scarlet here across my breast!

“Let the Cat People make their magic!  Let Amochol sacrifice to Leshi in Biskoonah!  Let their accursed Atensi watch the Mohicans from behind the moon.  Mayaro is a Sagamore and his clan are Sachems; and the clan was old—­ old—­ old, O little brother, before their Hiawatha came to them and made their League for them, and returned again to The Master of Life in his silver cloud-canoe!

“And I say to you, O my blood-brother, that between this sorcerer and me is now a war such as no Mohican ever waged and no man living, white or red, has ever seen.  His magic will I fight with magic; his knife and hatchet shall be turned on mine!  And I shall deceive and trick and mock him—­ him and his Erie Cats, till one by one their scalps shall swing above a clean Mohican fire.  O Loskiel, my brother, and my other self, a warrior and a Sagamore has spoken.  Go, now, to your evening tryst in peace and leave me.  For in my ears the Seven Chiefs are whispering—­ The Thunderers.  And Tamanund must hear my speech and read my heart.  And the long roll of our Mohican dead must be recited—­ here and alone by me—­ the only one who has that right since Uncas died and the Mohican priesthood ended, save for the Sagamores of the Magic Clan.