know
why this painted messenger had come, and I confess to crowding my way
among the foremost of the curious in order to hear, if possible, all that
was said.

The Indian stood like a statue before the shelter of fir boughs, looking
neither to the right nor the left until General Herkimer appeared and
said to him, questioningly:

"You have come from Captain Brant?"

It is hardly necessary for me to set it down that, some time before this,
Thayendanega had been given a commission in the British service.

The messenger nodded gravely, and, after pausing until one might have
counted ten, said:

"Thayendanega asks why so many white soldiers are encamped near his
village?"

"I have come to see and talk with my brother, Captain Brant," General
Herkimer replied, with the same stiff manner as that assumed by the
messenger.

"And do all these men want to talk with the chief, too?"

"They have come to bear me company; they are my followers, as Captain
Brant has his."

"And do they also call Thayendanega 'brother'?"

"Ay, and they hope he _is_ a brother to them."

The Indian turned slowly in what I thought a most offensive manner, as he
looked around at the faces of those who completely encircled him, and then
would have moved away, but that General Herkimer asked:

"Is Captain Brant in his village?"

"He will tell his white brother where he may be found, after I can run
five miles."

"Meaning that you will go from me to him, and return?" the general asked;
but it was as if the Indian did not hear the question, for he said, in a
tone which to me was one of menace:

"You will come no nearer Oghkwaga until Thayendanega shall give his
permission."

Having said this, he turned slowly about until facing the direction where
I knew Brant and his followers encamped the night previous, when he
stalked slowly away, giving no more heed to those who pressed closely to
him than if he was the only person in that vast wilderness.

To Jacob this enforced halt, at a time when he believed it was vitally
necessary he should be making search for his father, was most painful, and
despite all Sergeant Corney and I could say or do to relieve his distress
of mind, the poor lad paced to and fro, as I was told he had during the
long hours of the night, in a nervous condition pitiable to behold.

When half an hour or more had passed, the old soldier said to me, in a
more kindly tone than I had ever suspected he could use:

"The lad