University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

It was not only broad day-light, when Mabel awoke, but
the sun had actually been up some time. Her sleep had
been tranquil, for she rested on an approving conscience, and
fatigue contributed to render it sweet; and no sound of those
who had been so early in motion, had interfered with her
rest. Springing to her feet, and rapidly dressing herself, the
girl was soon breathing the fragrance of the morning, in the
open air. For the first time, she was sensibly struck with
the singular beauties, as well as with the profound retirement
of her present situation. The day proved to be one of those
of the autumnal glory, so common to a climate that is more
abused than appreciated, and its influence was every way inspiriting
and genial. Mabel was benefited by this circumstance,
for, as she fancied, her heart was heavy on account
of the dangers to which a father, whom she now began to
love, as women love, when confidence is created.

But the island seemed absolutely deserted. The previous
night, the bustle of the arrival had given the spot an appearance
of life that was now entirely gone, and our heroine had
turned her eyes nearly around on every object in sight, before
she caught a view of a single human being to remove the sense
of utter solitude. Then, indeed, she beheld all who were
left behind, collected in a group, around a fire which might
be said to belong to the camp. The person of her uncle, to
whom she was so much accustomed, reassured the girl, and
she examined the remainder, with a curiosity natural to her
situation. Besides Cap, and the Quarter-Master, there were
the corporal, the three soldiers, and the woman who was
cooking. The huts were silent and empty, and the low, but
tower-like summit of the block-house, rose above the bushes,
by which it was half concealed, in picturesque beauty. The
sun was just casting its brightness into the open places of the

glade, and the vault, over her head, was impending in the
soft sublimity of the blue void. Not a cloud was visible, and
she secretly fancied the circumstance might be taken as a
harbinger of peace and security.

Perceiving that all the others were occupied with that great
concern of human nature, a breakfast, Mabel walked, unobserved,
towards an end of the island, where she was completely
shut out of view, by the trees and bushes. Here she
got a stand on the very edge of the water, by forcing aside
the low branches, and stood watching the barely perceptible
flow and re-flow of the miniature waves that laved the shore;
a sort of physical echo to the agitation that prevailed on the
lake, fifty miles above her. The glimpses of natural scenery
that offered, were very soft and pleasing; and, our heroine,
who had a quick and true eye for all that was lovely in nature,
was not slow in selecting the most striking bits of landscape.
She gazed through the different vistas formed by the
openings between the islands, and thought she had never looked
on aught more lovely.

While thus occupied, Mabel was suddenly alarmed by fancying
that she caught a glimpse of a human form, among the
bushes that lined the shore of the island that lay directly before
her. The distance across the water was not a hundred
yards, and though she might be mistaken, and her fancy was
wandering when the form passed before her sight, still she
did not think she could be deceived. Aware that her sex
would be no protection against a rifle-bullet, should an Iroquois
get a view of her, the girl instinctively drew back,
taking care to conceal her person as much as possible by
the leaves, while she kept her own look riveted on the opposite
shore, vainly waiting for some time, in the expectation of
the stranger. She was about to quit her post in the bushes,
and hasten to her uncle in order to acquaint him of her suspicions,
when she saw the branch of an alder thrust beyond
the fringe of bushes, on the other island, and waved toward
her significantly, and, as she fancied in token of amity. This
was a breathless and a trying moment, to one as inexperienced
in frontier warfare as our heroine, and yet she felt
the great necessity that existed for preserving her recollection,
and of acting with steadiness and discretion.

It was one of the peculiarities of the exposure to which

those who dwelt on the frontiers of America were liable, to
bring out the moral qualities of the women to a degree that
they must themselves, under other circumstances, have believed
they were incapable of manifesting; and Mabel well knew
that the borderers loved to dwell, in their legends, on the presence
of mind, fortitude, and spirit that their wives and sisters
had displayed, under circumstances the most trying.
Her emulation had been awakened by what she had heard
on such subjects; and it at once struck her, that now was
the moment for her to show that she was truly Serjeant
Dunham's child. The motion of the branch was such as,
she believed, indicated amity; and, after a moment's hesitatation,
she broke off a twig, fastened it to a stick, and, thrusting
it through an opening, waved it in return, imitating, as
closely as possible, the manner of the other.

This dumb show lasted two or three minutes on both
sides, when Mabel perceived that the bushes opposite were
cautiously pushed aside, and a human face appeared at an
opening. A glance sufficed to let Mabel see that it was the
countenance of a red-skin, as well as that of a woman. A
second and a better look satisfied her that it was the face of the
Dew of June, the wife of Arrowhead. During the time she had
travelled in company with this woman, Mabel had been won
by the gentleness of manner, the meek simplicity, and the
mingled awe and affection with which she regarded her husband.
Once or twice, in the course of the journey, she
fancied the Tuscarora had manifested towards herself an unpleasant
degree of attention; and on those occasions, it had
struck her, that his wife exhibited sorrow and mortification.
As Mabel, however, had more than compensated for any pain
she might, in this way, unintentionally have caused her companion,
by her own kindness of manner and attentions, the
woman had shown much attachment to her, and they had
parted, with a deep conviction on the mind of our heroine,
that in the Dew of June she had lost a friend.

It is useless to attempt to analyze all the ways by which
the human heart is led into confidence. Such a feeling,
however, had the young Tuscarora woman awakened in the
breast of our heroine; and the latter, under the impression
that this extraordinary visit was intended for her own good,
felt every disposition to have a closer communication. She

no longer hesitated about showing herself clear of the bushes,
and was not sorry to see the Dew of June imitate her confidence,
by stepping fearlessly out of her own cover. The
two girls, for the Tuscarora, though married, was even
younger than Mabel, now openly exchanged signs of friendship,
and the latter beckoned to her friend to approach,
though she knew not the manner, herself, in which this object
could be effected. But the Dew of June was not slow in
letting it be seen that it was in her power; for, disappearing
a moment, she soon showed herself again in the end of a bark
canoe, the bows of which she had drawn to the edge of the
bushes, and of which the body still lay in a sort of covered
creek. Mabel was about to invite her to cross, when her
own name was called aloud, in the stentorian voice of her
uncle. Making a hurried gesture for the Tuscarora girl to
conceal herself; Mabel sprang from the bushes, and tripped
up the glade towards the sound, and perceived that the whole
party had just seated themselves at breakfast; Cap having
barely put his appetite under sufficient restraint to summon
her to join them. That this was the most favourable instant
for the interview flashed on the mind of Mabel; and, excusing
herself on the plea of not being prepared for the
meal, she bounded back to the thicket, and soon renewed her
communications with the young Indian woman.

Dew of June was quick of comprehension; and with half-a-dozen
noiseless strokes of the paddles, her canoe was concealed
in the bushes of Station Island. In another minute,
Mabel held her hand, and was leading her through the grove
towards her own hut. Fortunately, the latter was so placed
as to be completely hid from the sight of those at the fire,
and they both entered it unseen. Hastily explaining to her
guest, in the best manner she could, the necessity of quitting
her for a short time, Mabel, first placing the Dew of June in
her own room, with a full certainty that she would not quit
it until told to do so, went to the fire, and took her seat
among the rest, with all the composure it was in her power
to command.

“Late come, late served, Mabel,” said her uncle, between
two mouthfuls of broiled salmon, for though the cookery
might be very unsophisticated on that remote frontier, the

viands were generally delicious; “late come, late served: it
is a good rule, and keeps laggards up to their work.”

“I am no laggard, uncle, for I have been stirring near an
hour, and exploring our island.”

“It's little you'll make o' that, Mistress Mabel,” put in
Muir, “that's little by nature. Lundie, or it might be better
to style him Major Duncan in this presence”—this was said
in consideration of the corporal and the common men, though
they were taking their meal a little apart—“it might be better
to style him Major Duncan in this presence, has not added
an empire to his Majesty's dominions in getting possession
of this island, which is likely to equal that of the celebrated
Sancho, in revenues and profits—Sancho of whom, doubtless,
Master Cap, you'll often have been reading in your leisure
hours, more especially in calms, and moments of inactivity.”

“I know the spot you mean, Quarter-Master; Sancho's
Island—coral rock, of new formation, and as bad a landfall,
in a dark night and blowing weather, as a sinner could wish
to keep clear of. It's a famous place for cocoa-nuts and bitter
water, that Sancho's Island!”

“It's no very famous for dinners,” returned Muir, repressing
the smile that was struggling to his lips, out of respect to
Mabel, “nor do I think there'll be much to choose between
its revenue and that of this spot. In my judgment, Master
Cap, this is a very unmilitary position, and I look to some
calamity's befalling it, sooner or later.”

“It is to be hoped not until our turn of duty is over,” observed
Mabel. “I have no wish to study the French language.”

“We might think ourselves happy, did it not prove to be
the Iroquois. I have reasoned with Major Duncan on the
occupation of this position, but `a wilfu' man maun ha' his
way.' My first object, in accompanying this party, was to
endeavour to make myself acceptable and useful to your
beautiful niece, Master Cap; and the second was to take such
an account of the stores that belong to my particular department,
as shall leave no question open to controversy, concerning
the manner of expenditure, when they shall have
disappeared by means of the enemy.”

“Do you look upon matters as so serious?” demanded

Cap, actually suspending his mastication of a bit of venison,
for he passed alternately, like a modern élégant, from fish
to flesh and back again, in the interest he took in the answer.
“Is the danger pressing?”

“I'll no say just that; and I'll no say, just the contrary.
There is always danger in war, and there is more of it at
the advanced posts than at the main encampment. It ought,
therefore, to occasion no surprise were we to be visited by
the French, at any moment.”

“And what the devil is to be done in that case?—Six men
and two women would make but a poor job, in defending
such a place as this, should the enemy invade us, as no
doubt, Frenchman-like, they would take very good care to
come strong-handed.”

“That we may depend on. Some very formidable force,
at the very lowest. A military disposition might be made,
in defence of the island, out of all question, and according to
the art of war, though we would probably fail in the force
necessary to carry out the design, in any very creditable
manner. In the first place, a detachment should be sent off
to the shore, with orders to annoy the enemy in landing. A
strong party ought instantly to be thrown into the block-house,
as the citadel, for on that all the different detachments
would naturally fall back for support, as the French advanced;
and an entrenched camp might be laid out around
the strong-hold, as it would be very unmilitary, indeed, to let
the foe get near enough to the foot of the walls to mine them.
Chevaux-de-frise would keep the cavalry in check, and as for
the artillery, redoubts should be thrown up, under cover of
yon woods. Strong skirmishing parties, moreover, would
be exceedingly serviceable in retarding the march of the
enemy; and these different huts, if properly picketed and
ditched, would be converted into very eligible positions for
that object.”

“Whe-e-e-w! Quarter-Master. And who the d—l is to
find all the men to carry out such a plan?”

“The King, out of all question, Master Cap. It is his
quarrel, and it's just he should bear the burthen o' it.”

“And we are only six! This is fine talking, with a vengeance.
You could be sent down to the shore to oppose the
landing, Mabel might skirmish with her tongue at least, the

soldier's wife might act chevaux-de-frise, to entangle the
cavalry, the corporal should command the entrenched camp,
his three men could occupy the five huts, and I would take
the block-house. Whe-e-e-w, you describe well, Lieutenant,
and should have been a limner instead of a soldier!”

“Na—I 've been very literal and upright in my exposition
of matters. That there is no greater force here to carry out
the plan, is a fault of His Majesty's ministers, and none of
mine.”

“But should our enemy really appear,” asked Mabel, with
more interest than she might have shown, had she not remembered
the guest in the hut, “what course ought we to
pursue?”

“My advice would be to attempt to achieve that, pretty
Mabel, which rendered Xenophon so justly celebrated.”

“I think you mean a retreat, though I half guess at your
allusion.”

“You've imagined my meaning from the possession of a
strong native sense, young lady. I am aware that your worthy
father has pointed out to the corporal, certain modes and
methods by which he fancies this island could be held, in
case the French should discover its position; but the excellent
serjeant, though your father, and as good a man in his
duties as ever wielded a spontoon, is not the great Lord Stair,
or even the Duke of Marlborough. I 'll no deny the serjeant's
merits, in his particular sphere, though I cannot exaggerate
qualities, however excellent, into those of men who may be,
in some trifling degree, his superiors. Serjeant Dunham has
taken counsel of his heart, instead of his head, in resolving
to issue such orders; but, if the fort fall, the blame will lie
on him that ordered it to be occupied, and not on him whose
duty it was to defend it. Whatever may be the determination
of the latter, should the French and their allies land, a
good commander never neglects the preparations necessary
to effect a retreat; and I would advise Master Cap, who is
the admiral of our navy, to have a boat in readiness to evacuate
the island, if need comes to need. The largest boat
that we have left, carries a very ample sail, and by hauling
it round here, and mooring it under those bushes, there will
be a convenient place for a hurried embarkation, and then
you 'll perceive, pretty Mabel, that it is scarce fifty yards

before we shall be in a channel between two other islands,
and hid from the sight of those who may happen to be on this.”

“All that you say, is very true, Mr. Muir; but may not
the French come from that quarter themselves? If it is so
good for a retreat, it is equally good for an advance.”

“They'll no have the sense to do so discreet a thing,” returned
Muir, looking furtively and a little uneasily around
him; “they'll no have sufficient discretion. Your French
are a head-over-heels nation, and usually come forward in a
random way; so, we may look for them, if they come at all,
on the other side of the island.”

The discourse now became exceedingly desultory, touching
principally, however, on the probabilities of an invasion, and
the best means of meeting it.

To most of this, Mabel paid but little attention, though
she felt some surprise that Lieutenant Muir, an officer whose
character for courage stood well, should openly recommend
an abandonment of what appeared to her to be doubly a duty,
her father's character being connected with the defence of
the island. Her mind, however, was so much occupied
with her guest, that, seizing the first favourable moment, she
left the table, and was soon in her own hut again. Carefully
fastening the door, and seeing that the simple curtain was
drawn before the single little window, Mabel next led the
Dew of June, or June, as she was familiarly termed by those
who spoke to her in English, into the outer room, making
signs of affection and confidence.

“I am glad to see you, June,” said Mabel, with one of her
sweetest smiles, and in her own winning voice; “very glad
to see you—what has brought you hither, and how did you
discover the island?”

“Speak slow,” said June, returning smile for smile, and
pressing the little hand she held, with one of her own, that
was scarcely larger, though it had been hardened by labour,
“more slow—too quick.”

Mabel repeated her questions, endeavouring to repress the
impetuosity of her feelings, and she succeeded in speaking
so distinctly as to be understood.

“June, friend,” returned the Indian woman.

“I believe you, June—from my soul I believe you; what
has this to do with your visit?”

“Friend come to see friend,” answered June, again
smiling openly in the other's face.

“There is some other reason, June: else would you never
run this risk, and alone—you are alone, June?”

“June wid you—no one else. June come alone—paddle
canoe.”

“I hope so—I think so—nay, I know so. You would not
be treacherous with me, June?”

“What treacherous?”

“You would not betray me—would not give me to the
French—to the Iroquois—to Arrowhead”—June shook her
head earnestly,—“you would not sell my scalp?”

Here June passed her arm fondly around the slender waist
of Mabel, and pressed her to her heart, with a tenderness
and affection, that brought tears into the eyes of our heroine.
It was done in the fond caressing manner of a woman, and
it was scarcely possible that it should not obtain credit for
sincerity, with a young and ingenuous person of the same
sex. Mabel returned the pressure, and then held the other
off at the length of her arm, looked her steadily in the face,
and continued her inquiries.

“If June has something to tell her friend, let her speak
plainly,” she said. “My ears are open.”

“June 'fraid Arrowhead kill her.”

“But Arrowhead will never know it.” Mabel's blood
mounted to her temples, as she said this; for she felt that she
was urging a wife to be treacherous to her husband. “That
is, Mabel will not tell him.”

“He bury tomahawk in June's head.”

“That must never be, dear June; I would rather you
should say no more, than run this risk.”

“Block-house good place to sleep—good place to stay.”

“Do you mean that I may save my life by keeping in the
block-house, June? Surely, surely, Arrowhead will not hurt
you for telling me that. He cannot wish me any great harm,
for I never injured him.”

“Arrowhead wish no harm to handsome pale-face,” returned
June, averting her face, and, though she always spoke
in the soft gentle voice of an Indian girl, permitting its notes
to fall so low as to cause them to sound melancholy and
timid,—“Arrowhead love pale-face girl.”

Mabel blushed, she knew not why, and, for a moment, her
questions were repressed by a feeling of inherent delicacy.
But it was necessary to know more, for her apprehensions
had been keenly awakened, and she resumed her inquiries.

“Arrowhead can have no reason to love, or to hate me,”
she said. “Is he near you?”

“Husband always near wife, here,” said June, laying her
hand on her heart.

“Excellent creature!—But, tell me June, ought I to keep
in the block-house to-day—this morning—now?”

“Block-house very good; good for women. Block-house
got no scalp.”

“I fear I understand you only too well, June. Do you
wish to see my father?”

“No here; gone away.”

“You cannot know that, June; you see the island is
full of his soldiers.”

“No full; gone away,”—here June held up four of her
fingers,—“so many red-coats.”

“And Pathfinder—would you not like to see the Pathfinder?—he
can talk to you in the Iroquois tongue.”

“Tongue gone wid him,” said June, laughing; “keep
tongue in his mout'.”

There was something so sweet and contagious in the infantile
laugh of an Indian girl, that Mabel could not refrain
from joining in it, much as her fears were aroused by all that
had passed.

“You appear to know, or to think you know, all about
us, June. But, if Pathfinder be gone, Eau-douce can speak
French, too. You know Eau-douce; shall I run and bring
him to talk with you?”

“Eau-douce gone, too, all but heart; that there.” As June
said this, she laughed again, looked in different directions, as
if unwilling to confuse the other, and laid her hand on Mabel's
bosom.

Our heroine had often heard of the wonderful sagacity of
the Indians, and of the surprising manner in which they
noted all things, while they appeared to regard none, but
she was scarce prepared for the direction the discourse had
so singularly taken. Willing to change it, and, at the same
time, truly anxious to learn how great the danger that impended

over them might really be, she rose from the camp-stool, on
which she had been seated, and, by assuming an attitude of
less affectionate confidence, she hoped to hear more of that
she really desired to learn, and to avoid allusions to that
which she found so embarrassing.

“You know how much or how little you ought to tell me,
June,” she said, “and I hope you love me well enough to
give me the information I ought to hear. My dear uncle,
too, is on the island, and you are, or ought to be, his friend,
as well as mine; and both of us will remember your conduct,
when we get back to Oswego.”

“Maybe never get back;—who know?” This was said
doubtingly, or as one lays down an uncertain proposition, and
not with a taunt, or a desire to alarm.

“No one knows what will happen, but God. Our lives
are in his hands. Still I think you are to be his instrument
in saving us.”

This passed June's comprehension, and she only looked
her ignorance, for it was evident she wished to be of use.

“Block-house very good,” she repeated, as soon as her
countenance ceased to express uncertainty, laying strong emphasis
on the two last words.

“Well, I understand this, June, and will sleep in it to-night.
Of course, I am to tell my uncle what you have
said.”

The Dew of June started, and she discovered a very manifest
uneasiness, at the interrogatory.

“No—no—no—no”—she answered, with a volubility and
vehemence that was imitated from the French of the Canadas,
“no good to tell Salt-water. He much talk and long tongue.
Thinks woods all water; understand not'ing. Tell Arrowhead,
and June die.”

“You do my dear uncle injustice, for he would be as little
likely to betray you, as any one.”

“No understand. Salt-water got tongue, but no eyes, no
ears, no nose—not'ing but tongue, tongue, tongue.”

Although Mabel did not exactly coincide in this opinion,
she saw that Cap had not the confidence of the young Indian
woman, and that it was idle to expect she would consent to
his being admitted to their interview.

“You appear to think you know our situation pretty well,

June,” Mabel continued—“have you been on the island before
this visit?”

“Just come.”

“How then do you know that what you say is true; my
father, the Pathfinder and Eau-douce may all be here within
sound of my voice, if I choose to call them.”

“All gone,” said June positively, smiling good-humouredly
at the same time.

“Nay, this is more than you can say certainly, not having
been over the island to examine it.”

“Got good eyes; see boat with men go away—see ship
with Eau-douce.”

“Then you have been some time watching us.—I think,
however, you have not counted them that remain.”

June laughed, held up her four fingers again, and then
pointed to her two thumbs—passing a finger over the first,
she repeated the words “red-coats,” and touching the last, she
added—“Salt-water,” “Quarter-Master.” All this was being
very accurate, and Mabel began to entertain serious doubts
of the propriety of her permitting her visiter to depart without
her becoming more explicit. Still it was so repugnant to
her feelings to abuse the confidence this gentle and affectionate
creature had evidently reposed in her, that Mabel had no
sooner admitted the thought of summoning her uncle, than
she rejected it, as unworthy of herself, and unjust to her
friend. To aid this good resolution, too, there was the certainty
that June would reveal nothing, but take refuge in a
stubborn silence, if any attempt was made to coerce her.

“You think, then, June,” Mabel continued, as soon as
these thoughts had passed through her mind, “that I had
better live in the block-house?”

“Good place for woman. Block-house got no scalp.
Logs t'ick.”

“You speak confidently, June, as if you had been in it,
and had measured its walls.”

June laughed, and she looked knowing, though she said
nothing.

“Does any one but yourself know how to find this island
—have any of the Iroquois seen it?”

June looked sad, and she cast her eyes warily about her,
as if distrusting a listener.

“Tuscarora everywhere—Oswego, here, Frontenac, Mohawk—everywhere.
If he see June, kill her.”

“But we thought that no one knew of this island, and that
we had no reason to fear our enemies while on it.”

“Much eye, Iroquois.”

“Eyes will not always do, June.—This spot is hid from
ordinary sight, and few of even our own people know how
to find it.”

“One man can tell—some Yengeese talk French.”

Mabel felt a chill at her heart. All the suspicions against
Jasper, which she had hitherto disdained entertaining, crowded
in a body on her thoughts, and the sensation that they brought
was so sickening, that for an instant she imagined she was
about to faint. Arousing herself, and remembering her promise
to her father, she arose and walked up and down the
hut for a minute, fancying that Jasper's delinquencies were
naught to her, though her inmost heart yearned with the
desire to think him innocent.

“I understand your meaning, June,” she then said—“You
wish me to know that some one has treacherously told your
people where and how to find the island.”

June laughed, for in her eyes artifice in war was oftener a
merit than a crime; but she was too true to her tribe herself,
to say more than the occasion required. Her object was to
save Mabel, and Mabel only, and she saw no sufficient reason
for “travelling out of the record,” as the lawyers express
it, in order to do any thing else.

“Pale-face know now—” she added—“Block-house good
for girl—no matter for men and warriors.”

“But it is much matter with me, June, for one of these
men is my uncle, whom I love, and the others are my countrymen
and friends. I must tell them what has passed.”

“Then June be kill”—returned the young Indian quietly,
though she evidently spoke with concern.

“No—they shall not know that you have been here.
Still, they must be on their guard, and we can all go into the
block-house.”

“Arrowhead know—see every thing, and June be kill.
June come to tell young pale-face friend, not to tell men.
Every warrior watch his own scalp. June woman, and tell
woman; no tell men.”

Mabel was greatly distressed at this declaration of her
wild friend, for it was now evident the young creature understood
that her communication was to go no farther. She
was ignorant how far these people considered the point of
honour interested in her keeping the secret; and, most of all,
was she unable to say how far any indiscretion of her own
might actually commit June, and endanger her life. All
these considerations flashed on her mind, and reflection only
rendered their influence more painful. June, too, manifestly
viewed the matter gravely, for she began to gather up the
different little articles she had dropped, in taking Mabel's
hand, and was preparing to depart. To attempt detaining
her was out of the question, and to part from her, after all
she had hazarded to serve her, was repugnant to all the just
and kind feelings of our heroine's nature.

“June,” she said eagerly, folding her arms round the gentle,
but uneducated being, “we are friends. From me you
have nothing to fear, for no one shall know of your visit. If
you could give me some signal just before the danger comes,
some sign by which to know when to go into the block-house,
—how to take care of myself.”

June paused, for she had been in earnest in her intention
to depart; and then she said quietly—

“Bring June pigeon.”

“A pigeon! Where shall I find a pigeon to bring you?”

“Next hut—bring old one—June go to canoe.”

“I think I understand you, June; but had I not better lead
you back to the bushes, lest you meet some of the men?”

“Go out first—count men—one—two—t'ree—four—five
—six”—here June held up her fingers, and laughed—“all
out of way—good—all but one—call him one side. Then
sing, and fetch pigeon.”

Mabel smiled at the readiness and ingenuity of the girl,
and prepared to execute her requests. At the door, however,
she stopped, and looked back entreatingly at the Indian
woman.

“Is there no hope of your telling me more, June?” she said.

“Know all now—block-house good—pigeon tell—Arrowhead
kill.”

The last words sufficed; for Mabel could not urge further
communications, when her companion herself told her, that

the penalty of her revelations might be death by the hand of
her husband. Throwing open the door, she made a sign of
adieu to June, and went out of the hut. Mabel resorted to the
simple expedient of the young Indian girl, to ascertain the situation
of the different individuals on the island. Instead of looking
about her with the intention of recognizing faces and
dresses, she merely counted them; and found that three still
remained at the fire, while two had gone to the boat, one of
whom was Mr. Muir. The sixth man was her uncle; and
he was coolly arranging some fishing tackle, at no great distance
from the fire. The woman was just entering her own
hut; and this accounted for the whole party. Mabel now,
affecting to have dropped something, returned nearly to the
hut she had left, warbling an air, stooped as if to pick up
some object from the ground, and hurried towards the hut
June had mentioned. This was a dilapidated structure, and
it had been converted, by the soldiers of the last detachment,
into a sort of store-house for their live stock. Among other
things, it contained a few dozen pigeons, which were regaling
on a pile of wheat, that had been brought off from one of
the farms plundered on the Canada shore. Mabel had not
much difficulty in catching one of these pigeons, although
they fluttered and flew about the hut, with a noise like that of
drums; and, concealing it in her dress, she stole back towards
her own hut with the prize. It was empty; and, without
doing more than cast a glance in at the door, the eager girl
hurried down to the shore. She had no difficulty in escaping
observation, for the trees and bushes made a complete cover
to her person. At the canoe, she found June; who took the
pigeon, placed it in a basket of her own manufacturing,
and repeating the words, “block-house good,” she glided out
of the bushes, and across the narrow passage, as noiselessly
as she had come. Mabel waited some time to catch a signal
of leave-taking or amity, after her friend had landed; but
none was given. The adjacent islands, without exception,
were as quiet as if no one had ever disturbed the sublime repose
of nature; and nowhere could any sign or symptom be
discovered, as Mabel then thought, that might denote the
proximity of the sort of danger of which June had given
notice.

On returning, however, from the shore, Mabel was struck

with a little circumstance, that, in an ordinary situation,
would have attracted no attention, but which, now that her
suspicions had been aroused, did not pass before her uneasy
eye unnoticed. A small piece of red bunting, such as is used
in the ensigns of ships, was fluttering at the lower branch of
a small tree, fastened in a way to permit it to blow out, or
to droop like a vessel's pennant.

Now that Mabel's fears were awakened, June herself could
not have manifested greater quickness in analyzing facts that
she believed might affect the safety of the party. She saw
at a glance, that this bit of cloth could be observed from an
adjacent island; that it lay so near the line between her own
hut and the canoe, as to leave no doubt that June had passed
near it, if not directly under it; and that it might be a
signal to communicate some important fact connected with
the mode of attack, to those who were probably lying in
ambush near them. Tearing the little strip of bunting from
the tree, Mabel hastened on, scarce knowing what her duty
next required of her. June might be false to her; but her manner,
her looks, her affection, and her disposition as Mabel had
known it in the journey, forbade the idea. Then came
the allusion to Arrowhead's admiration of the pale-face
beauties, some dim recollections of the looks of the Tuscarora,
and a painful consciousness that few wives could view
with kindness one who had estranged a husband's affections.
None of these images were distinct and clear, but they rather
gleamed over the mind of our heroine than rested in it, and
they quickened her pulses, as they did her step, without
bringing with them the prompt and clear decisions that
usually followed her reflections. She had hurried onwards
towards the hut occupied by the soldier's wife, intending to
remove at once to the block-house, with the woman, though
she could persuade no other to follow, when her impatient
walk was interrupted by the voice of Muir.

“Whither so fast, pretty Mabel,” he cried, “and why so
given to solitude?—the worthy serjeant will deride my breeding,
if he hear that his daughter passes the mornings alone
and unattended to, though he well knows that it is my ardent
wish to be her slave and companion, from the beginning of
the year to its end.”

“Surely, Mr. Muir, you must have some authority here,”

Mabel suddenly arrested her steps to say. “One of your
rank would be listened to, at least, by a corporal!”

“I don't know that—I don't know that,”—interrupted
Muir, with an impatience and appearance of alarm that
might have excited Mabel's attention at another moment.
“Command is command, discipline, discipline, and authority,
authority. Your good father would be sore grieved did he
find me interfering to sully, or carry off the laurels he is
about to win; and I cannot command the corporal, without
equally commanding the serjeant. The wisest way will be
for me to remain in the obscurity of a private individual in
this enterprise; and it is so that all parties, from Lundie
down, understand the transaction.”

“This I know, and it may be well; nor would I give my
dear father any cause of complaint, but you may influence
the corporal to his own good.”

“I 'll no say that,” returned Muir, in his sly Scotch way;
—“it would be far safer to promise to influence him to
his injury. Mankind, pretty Mabel, have their peculiarities,
and to influence a fellow-being to his own good, is one of the
most difficult tasks of human nature, while the opposite is
just the easiest. You 'll no forget this, my dear; but bear it
in mind for your edification and government; but, what is
that you 're twisting round your slender finger, as you may
be said to twist hearts?”

“It is nothing but a bit of cloth—a sort of flag—a trifle
that is hardly worth our attention at this grave moment—
If”—

“A trifle! It 's no so trifling as ye may imagine, Mistress
Mabel,” taking the bit of bunting from her, and stretching it
at full length with both his arms extended, while his face
grew grave, and his eye watchful. “Ye 'll no ha' been
finding this, Mabel Dunham, in the breakfast?”

Mabel simply acquainted him with the spot where, and the
manner in which he had found the bit of cloth. While she
was speaking, the eye of the Quarter-Master was not quiet
for a moment, glancing from the rag to the face of our heroine,
then back again to the rag. That his suspicions were
awakened was easy to be seen, nor was he long in letting it
be known what direction they had taken.

“We are not in a part of the world, where our ensigns

and gauds ought to be spread abroad to the wind, Mabel
Dunham!” he said, with an ominous shake of the head.

“I thought as much myself, Mr. Muir, and brought away
the little flag, lest it might be the means of betraying our
presence here, to the enemy, even though nothing is intended
by its display. Ought not my uncle to be made acquainted
with the circumstance?”

“I no see the necessity for that, pretty Mabel, for as you
justly say it is a circumstance, and circumstances sometimes
worry the worthy mariner. But this flag, if flag it can be
called, belongs to a seaman's craft. You may perceive that it
is made of what is called bunting, and that is a description
of cloth used only by vessels for such purposes, our colours
being of silk, as you may understand, or painted canvass.
It 's surprisingly like the fly of the Scud's ensign! And now
I recollect me, to have observed that a piece had been cut
from that very flag!”

Mabel felt her heart sink, but she had sufficient self-command
not to attempt an answer.

“It must be looked to,” Muir continued, “and after all, I
think it may be well to hold a short consultation with Master
Cap, than whom a more loyal subject does not exist in the
British Empire.”

“I have thought the warning so serious,” Mabel rejoined,
“that I am about to remove to the block-house, and to take
the woman with me.”

“I do not see the prudence of that, Mabel. The block-house
will be the first spot assailed, should there really be
an attack; and it 's no well provided for a siege, that must be
allowed. If I might advise in so delicate a contingency, I
would recommend your taking refuge in the boat, which, as
you may now perceive, is most favourably placed to retreat
by that channel opposite, where all in it would be hid by the
islands, in one or two minutes. Water leaves no trail, as
Pathfinder well expresses it, and there appears to be so many
different passages in that quarter, that escape would be more
than probable. I 've always been of opinion that Lundie
hazarded too much, in occupying a post as far advanced, and
as much exposed, as this.”

“It 's too late to regret it now, Mr. Muir, and we have
only to consult our own security.”

“And the King's honour, pretty Mabel. Yes, His Majesty's
arms, and his glorious name, are not to be overlooked
on any occasion.”

“Then I think it might be better, if we all turned our
eyes towards the place that has been built to maintain them,
instead of the boat,” said Mabel, smiling; “and so, Mr. Muir,
I am for the block-house, with a disposition to await there
the return of my father, and his party. He would be sadly
grieved, at finding we had fled, when he got back, successful
himself, and filled with the confidence of our having been as
faithful to our duties, as he has been to his own.”

“Nay, nay, for Heaven's sake, do not misunderstand me,
Mabel,” Muir interrupted with some alarm of manner, “I
am far from intimating that any but you females ought to
take refuge in the boat. The duty of us men is sufficiently
plain no doubt, and my resolution has been formed from the
first, to stand or fall by the block-house.”

“And did you imagine, Mr. Muir, that two females could
row that heavy boat, in a way to escape the bark canoe of
an Indian?”

“Ah! my pretty Mabel, love is seldom logical, and its
fears and misgivings are apt to warp the faculties. I only
saw your sweet person in possession of the means of safety,
and overlooked the want of ability to use them. But you 'll
no be so cruel, lovely creature, as to impute to me as a fault,
my intense anxiety on your own account!”

Mabel had heard enough. Her mind was too much occupied
with what had passed that morning, and with her fears, to
wish to linger further to listen to love speeches, that, in her
most joyous and buoyant moments, she would have found unpleasant.
She took a hasty leave of her companion, and was
about to trip away towards the hut of the other woman,
when Muir arrested the movement, by laying a hand on her
arm.

“One word, Mabel,” he said, “before you leave me. This
little flag may, or it may not have a particular meaning; if
it has, now that we are aware of its being shown, may it
not be better to put it back again, while we watch vigilantly
for some answer, that may betray the conspiracy; and if it
mean nothing, why nothing will follow.”

“This may be all right, Mr. Muir, though if the whole is

accidental, the flag might be the occasion of the fort's being
discovered.”

Mabel stayed to utter no more, but she was soon out of
sight, running into the hut towards which she had been first
proceeding. The Quarter-Master remained on the very spot,
and in the precise attitude in which she had left him, for
quite a minute, first looking at the bounding figure of the
girl, and then at the bit of bunting, which he still held before
him, in a way to denote indecision. His irresolution
lasted but for this minute, however, for he was soon beneath
the tree, where he fastened the mimic flag to a branch, again,
though from his ignorance of the precise spot from which it
had been taken by Mabel, he left it fluttering from a part of
the oak, where it was still more exposed than before, to the
eyes of any passenger on the river, though less in view from
the island, itself.