“Yes, Brant,” returned the man, in a deep, stern voice. “Like a fool, I left the Indians to follow me, or we would give the rascals down yonder hot work.”
“Then you have brought me no help, Colonel?”
“Not fifty men; you must run for it this time.”
The savage uttered the words in a tone of sullen wrath which betrayed his deep hatred of the Whigs. His hand clutched unconsciously over the hilt of his knife, and a terrible frown settled upon the heavy darkness of his forehead. He was a picturesque object in spite of the evil expression of his features. Like his manner, the dress that he wore was a singular mingling of the Indian costume and the attire of the whites. Under his frock of deer-skin was buttoned a military vest, doubtless the spoil taken from some one of his numerous victims, and over his shoulders was flung an Indian blanket, worn with the grace of a regal mantle. His long, black hair fell in dull masses about his neck, and from under his shaggy brows blazed his unquiet eyes with a deadly fire from which the bravest might well have recoiled.
“Do you go with me, Brant?” asked Sir John.
“Yes, Brant will be your guide. Queen Esther is not many miles away with a portion of her tribe; you will find protection among them.”
“Is Catharine Montour there?” interrupted Butler.
“No, she rests at Seneca Lake; the young woman whom you have made your wife is with her. Sir John, you have no time to lose in useless questions—is all ready?”
“In one moment. Here, Pomp, come to my chamber.”
They went out; and in a few moments Sir John returned, prepared for flight.