warrior and a chief, which Nick would do, and do well, on
occasion, the captain pocketed the offering, and regulated his own
course accordingly.

"At all events, I have a right to insist on knowing, first, by what
means you entered the palisades; and, second, what business has brought
you here, at night, and so suddenly."

"Ask Nick, cap'in, all he right to ask; but, don't touch ole flog. How
I cross palisade? Where your sentinel to stop Injin? One at gate; well,
none all round, t'other place. Get in, up here, down dere, over yonder.
Ten, twenty, t'ree spot--s'pose him tree? climb him. S'pose him
palisade?--climb him, too. What help?--Soldier out at gate when Nick
get over t'other end! Come in court, too, when he want. Half gate half
no gate. So easy, 'shamed to brag of. Cap'in once Nick's friend--went
on same war-path--dat in ole time. Both warrior; both went ag'in French
garrison. Well; who crept in, close by cannon, open gate, let pale-men
in. Great Tuscarora do _dat_; no flog, _den_--no talk of ole
sore, dat night!"

"This is all true enough, Wyandotte"--This was Nick's loftiest
appellation; and a grim, but faint smile crossed his visage, as he
heard it, again, in the mouth of one who had known him when its sound
carried terror to the hearts of his enemies--"This is all true,
Wyandotte, and I have even given you credit for it. On that occasion
you were bold as the lion, and as cunning as a fox--you were much
honoured for that exploit."

"No ole sore in _dat_, um?" cried Nick, in a way so startling as
to sicken Mrs. Willoughby to the heart. "No call Nick dog, dat night.
He _all_ warrior, den--all face; no _back_."

"I have said you were honoured for your conduct, Nick, and paid for it.
Now, let me know what has brought you here to-night, and whence you
come."

There was another pause. Gradually, the countenance of the Indian
became less and less fierce, until it lost its expression of malignant
resentment in one in which human emotions of a kinder nature
predominated.

"Squaw good," he said, even gently, waving his hand towards Mrs.
Willoughby--"Got son; love him like little baby. Nick come six, two
time before, runner from her son."

"My son, Wyandotte!" exclaimed the mother--"Bring you any tidings, now,
from my boy?"

"No bring tidin'--too heavy; Indian don't love to carry load--bring
_letter_"

The cry from the three females was now common, each holding out her
hand, with an involuntary impulse, to