ocial station. A short fur coat, made from the
pelt of the much-prized forest cat, lay in a careless heap at the boy's
feet. It had felt comfortable enough in the still keenness of the early
morning hour, but now that the sun was well up in the sky it had been
discarded.

In his belt was stuck a long, double-edged hunting-knife, having its
wooden handle neatly bound with black waxed thread. A five-foot bow of
second-growth hickory leaned against the log beside him, but it was
unstrung, and the quiver of arrows, suspended by a strap from his
shoulders, had been allowed to shift from its proper position so that it
hung down the middle of his back and was, consequently, out of easy
hand-reach. But the youth was in no apparent fear of being surprised by
the advent of an enemy; certainly he had made no provision against such
a contingency, and the carelessness of his attitude was entirely
unaffected. It may be remarked that the arrows aforesaid were
iron-tipped instead of being simply fire-hardened, and in the feathering
of each a single plume of the scarlet tanager had been carefully
inserted. Presumably, the vermilion feather was the owner's private sign
of his work as a marksman. So far the lad's dress and accoutrements were
in entire conformity to the primeval rusticity of his surroundings.
Judge, then, of the reasonable surprise which the observer might feel at
discovering that the object in the boy's hand was nothing less
incongruous than a pair of binocular glasses, an exquisitely finished
example of the highest art of the optician. One of the eye-piece lenses
had been lost or broken, for, as the youth raised the glasses to sweep
again the distant sea-line, he covered the left-hand cylinder with a
flat, oblong object--a printed book. Its title, indeed, could be clearly
read as, a moment after, it lay partly open upon his knee--_A Child's
History of the United States_--and across the top of the page had been
neatly written in charcoal ink, "Constans, Son of Gavan at the Greenwood
Keep."

Mechanically, the boy began turning the leaves, stopping finally at a
page upon which was a picture of the lower part of New York City as seen
from the bay. Long and earnestly he studied it, looking up occasionally
as though he would find its visible presentment in that dark blur on the
horizon line. "It must be," he muttered, with a quick intake of his
breath. "The Forgotten City and Doom the Forbidden--one and the same.
Well, and w