asked Boyd harshly.

“The seal of the marauders, sir.”

“They burnt you? God, man, you are but one living sore! Did any white man do that to you?”

“With hot horse-shoes. It will never quite heal, they say.”

I saw the lieutenant shudder. The only thing he ever feared was fire — if it could be said of him that he feared anything. And he had told me that, were he taken by the Iroquois, he had a pistol always ready to blow out his brains.

Boyd had begun to pace the room, doubling and undoubling his nervous fingers. The landlord replaced the oil-soaked rags, rolled down his sleeves again, and silently awaited our pleasure.