painted Tories, Brant’s Mohawks — and the Senecas with their war-chiefs and their sorcerer, Amochol — truly a motley devil’s brood, Lana; and I pray only that one of Morgan’s men may sight Walter Butler or Sir John over his rifle’s end.”

“To think,” she murmured, “that you and I have dined and wined with these same gentlemen you now so ardently desire to slay� . And young Walter Butler, too! I saw his mother and his sister in Albany a week ago — two sad and pitiable women, Euan, for every furtive glance cast after them seemed to shout aloud the infamy of their son and brother, the Murderer of Cherry Valley.”

“To my mind,” said I, “he is not sane at all, but gone stark blood-mad.