also inquired where the key had been
found. The habitual frankness of Deerslayer prevented any prevarication,
and the conference soon terminated by the return of the two to the
outer room, or that which served for the double purpose of parlour and
kitchen.

"I wonder if it's peace or war, between us and the savages!" exclaimed
Hurry, just as Deerslayer, who had paused for a single instant, listened
attentively, and was passing through the outer door without stopping.
"This givin' up captives has a friendly look, and when men have traded
together on a fair and honourable footing they ought to part fri'nds,
for that occasion at least. Come back, Deerslayer, and let us have
your judgment, for I'm beginnin' to think more of you, since your late
behaviour, than I used to do."

"There's an answer to your question, Hurry, since you're in such haste
to come ag'in to blows."

As Deerslayer spoke, he threw on the table on which the other was
reclining with one elbow a sort of miniature fagot, composed of a dozen
sticks bound tightly together with a deer-skin thong. March seized it
eagerly, and holding it close to a blazing knot of pine that lay on
the hearth, and which gave out all the light there was in the room,
ascertained that the ends of the several sticks had been dipped in
blood.

"If this isn't plain English," said the reckless frontier man, "it's
plain Indian! Here's what they call a dicliration of war, down at York,
Judith. How did you come by this defiance, Deerslayer?"

"Fairly enough. It lay not a minut' since, in what you call Floatin'
Tom's door-yard."

"How came it there?"

"It never fell from the clouds, Judith, as little toads sometimes do,
and then it don't rain."

"You must prove where it come from, Deerslayer, or we shall suspect some
design to skear them that would have lost their wits long ago, if fear
could drive 'em away."

Deerslayer had approached a window, and cast a glance out of it on the
dark aspect of the lake. As if satisfied with what he beheld, he drew
near Hurry, and took the bundle of sticks into his own hand, examining
it attentively.

"Yes, this is an Indian declaration of war, sure enough," he said,
"and it's a proof how little you're suited to be on the path it has
travelled, Harry March, that it has got here, and you never the wiser as
to the means. The savages may have left the scalp on your head, but they
must have taken Off the ears; else you'd have heard the stirring of