but fat Peter, sprawling belly down at the ring, offered to put up an agate against four bull's-eyes, two agates, and twelve miggs, and play dubs and span in a round fat.
The proposition was impudent, unfair, and thoroughly Indian. I was about to spurn it when Silver Heels chirped up, "Micky doesn't dare."
"Put up your agate, Peter," said I, coolly, ignoring Silver Heels; and I fished the required marbles from my pocket and placed them in the ring.
"My shot," announced Peter, hurriedly, crowding down on the line, another outrage which, considering the presence of Silver Heels, I passed unnoticed.
Peter shot and clipped a migg out of the ring. He shot again and grazed an agate, shouting "Dubs!" to the derision of us all.
Then I squatted down and sent two bull's-eyes flying, but, forestalled by Peter's hysterical "Fen dubs!" was obliged to replace one. However, I shot again and it was dubs all, and I pocketed both of my agates and Peter's also.
This brought on a wrangle, which Silver Heels settled in my favour. Then I sat down and, with deadly accuracy, "spun," from which comfortable position, and without spanning, I skinned the ring, leaving Peter grief-stricken, with one migg in his grimy fist.
"You may have them," said I, condescendingly, dropping my spoils into Silver Heels's lap.
She coloured with surprise and pleasure, scarcely finding tongue to say, "Thank you, Micky."
Peter, being half Indian, demanded more play. But I was satiated and, already remembering my dignity, regretted the lapse into children's pastimes. I quieted Peter by giving him the remainder of my marbles, explaining that I had renounced such games for manlier sport, which statement, coupled with my lavish generosity, impressed Peter and Esk, if it had not effect upon Silver Heels.
I sat down on the stone bench near the bee-hives and drew from my pocket the jack-knife given me by Silver Heels as a bribe to silence.
"Come over here, Silver Heels," I said, with patronizing kindness.
"What for?" she demanded.
"Oh, don't come then," I retorted, whereat she rose from the grass with her skirt full of marbles and came over to the stone bench.
After a moment she seated herself, eying the knife askance. I had opened the blade. Lord, how I hated to give it back!
"Take it," said I, closing the blade, but not offering it to her.
"Truly?" she stammered, not reaching out her hand, for fear I should draw it away again to plague her.
I dropped the knife into her lap among the marbles, thrilling at the spectacle of my own generosity.
She seized it, repeating:
"King, King, double King!
Can't take back a given thing!"
"You needn't say 'King, King, double King,'" said I, offended; "for I was not going to take it back, silly!"
"Truly, Michael?" she asked, looking up at me. Then she added, sweetly, "I am sorry I bit you."
"Ho!" said I, "do you think you hurt me?"
She said nothing, playing with the marbles in her lap.
I sat and watched the bees fly to and fro like bullets; in the quiet even the hills, cloaked in purple mantles, smoked with the steam of hidden snow-drifts still lingering in ravines where arbutus scents the forest twilight.
The robins had already begun their rippling curfew call; crickets creaked from the planked walk. Behind me the voices of Peter and Esk rose in childish dispute or excited warning to "Knuckle down hard!" Already the delicate spring twilight stained the east with primrose and tints of green. A calm star rose in the south.
Presently Silver Heels pinched me, and I felt around to pinch back.
"Hush," she whispered, jogging my elbow a little, "there is a strange Indian between us and the block-house. He has a gun, but no blanket!"
For a moment a cold, tight feeling stopped my breath, not because a strange Indian stood between me and the block-house, but because of that instinct which stirs the fur on wild things when taken unawares, even by friends.
My roughened skin had not smoothed again before I was on my feet and advancing.
Instantly, too, I perceived that the Indian was a stranger to our country. Although an Iroquois, and possibly of the Cayuga tribe, yet he differed from our own Cayugas. He was stark naked save for the breech-clout. But his moccasins were foreign, so also was the pouch which swung like a Highlander's sporran from his braided clout-string, for it was made of the scarlet feathers of a bird which never flew in our country, and no osprey ever furnished the fine snow-white fringe which hung from it, falling half-way between knee and ankle.
Observing him at closer range, I saw he was in a plight: his flesh dusty and striped with dry blood where thorns had brushed him; his eyes burning with privation, and sunk deep behind the cheek-bones.
As I halted, he dropped the rifle into the hollow of his left arm and raised his right hand, palm towards me.
I raised my right hand, but remained motionless, bidding him lay his rifle at his feet.
He replied in the Cayuga language, yet with a foreign intonation, that the dew was heavy and would dampen the priming of his rifle; that he had no blanket on which to lay his arms, and further, that the sentinels at the block-houses were watching him with loaded muskets.
This was true. However, I permitted him to advance no closer until I hailed a soldier, who came clumping out of the stables, and who instantly cocked and primed his musket.
Then I asked the strange Cayuga what he wanted.
"Peace," he said, again raising his hand, palm out; and again I raised my hand, saying, "Peace!"
From the scarlet pouch he drew a little stick, six inches long, and painted red.
"Look out," said I to the soldier, "that is a war-stick! If he shifts his rifle, aim at his heart."
But the runner had now brought to light from his pouch other sticks, some blood-red, some black ringed with white. These he gravely sorted, dropping the red ones back into his pouch, and naïvely displaying the black and white rods in a bunch.
"War-ragh-i-ya-gey!" he said, gently, adding, "I bear belts!"
It was the title given by our Mohawks to Sir William, and signified, "One who unites two peoples together."
"You wish to see Chief Warragh," I repeated, "and you come with your pouch full of little red sticks?"
He darted a keen glance at me, then, with a dignified gesture, laid his rifle down in the dew.
A little ashamed, I turned and dismissed the soldier, then advanced and gave the silent runner my hand, telling him that although his moccasins and pouch were strange, nevertheless the kin of the Cayugas were welcome to Johnson Hall. I pointed at his rifle, bidding him resume it. He raised it in silence.
"He is a belt-bearer," I thought to myself; "but his message is not of peace."
I said, pleasantly:
"By the belts you bear, follow
