“I do not intend to reconnoitre the ford until dawn,” I whispered.

“Let me go, Loskiel.”

“Alone?”

“Secretly and alone. The Siwanois is a magic clan. Their Sagamores see and hear where others perceive nothing. Let me go, Loskiel.”

“Then I go, also.”

“No.”

“What of our blood-brotherhood, then?”

There was a silence; then the Mohican rose, and taking my hand in his drew me noiselessly to my feet beside him.

By sense of touch alone we lifted our rifles from our blankets, blew the powder from the pans, reprimed. Then, laying my left arm lightly on his shoulder, I followed his silent figure over the moss and down among the huge and phantom trees faintly outlined against the starlit water.