"'Turn to the fire of dawn, John O'Bail,
Turn to the fire of dawn;
The doe that waits in the vale
Was a fawn in the year that's gone!'
And John O'Bail he heeds the hail
And follows her on and on.

"Oh, Carus, they sang it and sang it, hammering their pewters together,
and roaring the chorus, and that last dreadful verse:

"'Where is the soul of you, John O'Bail,
Where is the soul you slew?
There's Painted Death on the trail,
And the moccasins point to you.
Shame on the name of John O'Bail----'"

She hesitated, peering through the shadows at me: "Who _was_ John
O'Bail, Carus? What is the Painted Death, and who are the People of the
Morning?"

"John O'Bail was a wandering fellow who went a-gipsying into the
Delaware country. The Delawares call themselves 'People of the
Morning.' This John O'Bail had a son by an Indian girl--and that's what
they made the ballad about, because this son is that mongrel demon,
Cornplanter, and he's struck the frontier like a catamount gone raving
mad. He is the 'Painted Death.'"

"Oh," she said thoughtfully, "so that is why they curse the name of
John O'Bail."

After a moment she went on again: "Well, you'll never guess who it was
singing away down there! I crept to my windows and peeped out, and
there, Carus, were those two queer forest-running fellows who stopped
us on the hill that morning----"

"Jack Mount!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, dear, and the other--the little wrinkled fellow, who had such
strangely fine manners for a Coureur-de-Bois----"

"The Weasel!"

"Yes, Carus, but very drunk, and boisterous, and cutting most amazing
capers. They went off, finally, arm in arm, shuffling, reeling, and
anon breaking into a solemn sort of dance; and everybody gave them wide
berth on the street, and people paused to look after them, marking them
with sour visages and wagging heads--" She stopped short, finger on
lips, listening.

Far up the street I heard laughter, then a plaintive, sustained
howling, then more laughter, drawing nearer and nearer.

Elsin nodded in silence. I sprang up and descended the stairs. The
tap-room was lighted with candles, and the sober burghers who sat
within, savoring the early ale, scarce noted my entrance, so intent
were they listening to the approaching tumult.

The peculiar howling had recommenced. Stepping to the open door I
looked out, and beheld a half-dozen forest-runners, in all the glory o