beside us, strode the Sagamore, fully armed and accoutred, lock braided, body oiled and painted for war — truly a terrific shape in the falling dusk.

On the naked breast of this Mohican warrior of the Siwanois clan, which is called by the Delawares “The Clan of the Magic Wolf,” outlined in scarlet, I saw the emblem of his own international clan — as I supposed — a bear.

And of a sudden, within me, vaguely, something stirred — some faint memory, as though I had once before beheld that symbol on a dark and naked breast, outlined in scarlet. Where had I seen it before? At Guy Park? At Johnson Hall? Fort Johnson? Butlersbury? Somewhere I had seen that symbol, and in that same paint. Yes, it might easily have been. Every nation of the Confederacy