"Here is no blace for us," he said. "We hafe saidt goodt-by to Tawannears—who is no longer Tawannears. He has a new life to lif. He must be an Indian of Indians. He has a wife andt a mother-in-law——"
"Who is not his mother-in-law," I gibed.
"Ja, berhaps. But dot doesn't matter now. We are white men. He is an Indian. We don't do him no goodt for a time. We petter go, andt leafe him to himself."
"Yes," I agreed slowly. "You are right, Peter. 'Tis strange how tactful you can be—and how talkative. But where shall we go?"
He gave me a curious look.
"It's petter you go home, eh?"
"Home?"
"Ja! New York—der gofernor—andt——"
He left the sentence unfinished, for which I was duly grateful. I was conscious of no impelling urge to return to civilization. The zest which had attended our homeward journey was gone from me. But I could not argue against Peter's suggestion. The governor expected a report from me. For the rest, I shrugged my shoulders. But I did not hunger for the house in Pearl Street. I did not even attempt to picture what awaited me there.
A snowstorm overtook us near the headwaters of the Mohawk, and after securing snowshoes from an Oneida village we decided we might as well save time by pushing straight southeast through the forest country on the west bank of Hudson's River, avoiding Fort Orange* and the contiguous settlement, and crossing the river at the first point we came to where the ice would hold. Corlaer knew every inch of this wild land, and was never at a loss to steer a bee-line in any direction he fancied.