Behind these, quite alone, stalked an Indian swathed in a scarlet blanket edged with gold, on which a silver gorget glittered. He seemed scarce darker than I in colour; and if he wore paint I saw none. There was only a scarlet band of cloth around his temples, and the flight-feather of the white-crested eagle set there low above the left ear and slanting backward.

“Brant!” I whispered to the Sagamore; and I saw him stiffen to very stone beside me; and heard his teeth grate in his jaws.

Then, last of all, came the Keepers of the Eastern Gate, the flower of the warriors of the Long House — the Mohawks.

They passed in the barbaric magnificence of paint and feather and shining steel, a hundred lithe, light-stepping warriors, rifles