what was written there in the Canienga dialect.

“I never have had it read. Indians refuse, shake their heads, and look askance at me, and tell me nothing; interpreters laugh at me, saying there is no meaning in the lines. Is there, Euan?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You can interpret?”

“Yes.”

“Will you?”

I was silent, pondering the fearful meaning which had been rendered plainer and more hideous by the painted symbols.

“It has to do with the magic of the Seneca priesthood,” I muttered. “Here is a foul screed — and yet a message, too, to you.”