first strangers or even neighbours whom he had trusted in years.

“Yes, sir, I know him,” he said in a low voice.

“Where is he?”

“Below — on our service.”

But it was Luther Kinnicut, the spy, whom we had come to interview, as well as to see Major Lockwood, and Boyd frowned thoughtfully.

I said: “The Indians hereabout are Mohican, are they not, Mr. Hays?”

“They were,” he replied; and his very apathy gave the answer a sadder significance.

“Have they all gone off?” asked Boyd, misunderstanding.

“There were very few Mohicans to go. But they have gone.”