his comrade; that the Stockbridge Indian had painted a Christian Cross over his tattooed clan-totem — no doubt the work of the Reverend Mr. Kirkland — and that the squatting Wyandotte wore the Hawk in brilliant yellow.

“What is yonder fellow’s name?” I asked Mayaro, dropping my voice.

“Black-Snake,” replied the Mohican quietly.

“Oh! He seems to wear the Hawk.”

The Sagamore’s face grew smooth and blank, and he made no comment.

“It’s a Western clan, is it not, Mayaro?”

“It is Western, Loskiel.”

“That clan does not exist among the Eastern nations?”