But, monsieur, I have
been over the ground. I can find no track."
I went to the balsam and examined it. Then I called the Englishman and
pointed to a patch of rubbed lichen on the bark above our heads. "His
foot slipped. What was he like? How was his hair dressed?"
He gasped a little. "Monsieur, it could not have been a real Indian.
The rubbed moss,--why, an animal could have done that. As to his
appearance, it was strange. His head was shaved on one side, and he
had long braided hair on the other. Surely it was a dream."
I laughed. "Come, Starling, the canoes are waiting."
"Monsieur, did you ever see an Indian shaved in that way?"
I nodded. "Many times."
"Monsieur, monsieur! What kind of Indians?"
"It is a Huron mode."
"Then we have been followed?"
I shrugged. "Evidently. I do not understand their game, but they will
declare it soon enough. Come, Starling."
But he lingered. "Monsieur, I blundered. I should have waked you."
I stopped to lay a hand on his shoulder. "And you will blunder again
if you waste strength in regrets. Come, a hangdog look means a divided
mind, and I need your wits. Keep what watch you can, and we shall say
nothing of this.
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