He drew his hands away. "I am often awake in the night. Last night the moon was clear. All at once I saw an Indian's face looking out from that tree."
"And you did not call me!"
"Monsieur, I thought it must be fancy. I have troubled dreams. I often—since my capture—think I see an Indian, and it proves to be nothing but a bush. So I distrust my eyes, especially at night. Then François was on watch, and several times he walked this way. If it had really been an Indian would not François have seen?"
I pointed him to the forest. "Do you see anything? We seem alone, yet there are countless eyes watching us, from the squirrel over your head to the Indian who may be listening now. When you lay on your back just now did you see anything that looked like a face?"
He shook his head. "No, the space was open. 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."