I jumped to my feet, shocked out of my evil mood, and chagrined by the discourtesy I had put upon the greatest man in our province, ay, the governor himself, Master Burnet, to whom we all owe more than we shall ever be able to repay for the diligent statecraft with which he nursed our community to increased wealth and prosperity. I know there are those who cry out against him, more especially since he was transferred to Massachusetts to wrestle with the dour Puritan folk and fell foul of their sanctimonious ways and contentious habits; but I account such no more than fools. He had a stern eye for the king's prerogatives, I grant you, and a jealous opinion of his own authority. But on questions of policy he was right ten times where his antagonists were right once.
He was a stout personage, ruddy of countenance and with strongly carved features, blunt, dogmatic, yet quaintly logical, a staunch friend and a fearless foe. He stood now in the doorway, feet planted wide, and drove home his words with thuds of his cane.
"Your Excellency!" I gasped. "I was at fault. I pray you——"
"Tush!"
He waved his hand in a gesture of derision, but a kindly gleam showed in his prominent eyes.
"Say no more, lad. I know what is wrong with you. 'Tis that brings me here—and other friends, too."
He stepped aside, and I exclaimed with surprise as my eyes discerned the two figures that slipped noiselessly out of the hall shadows.
"Tawannears! Peter!"
The first was an Indian, whose lithe body was naked above the tanned deerskin thigh-leggins and gaka, or breechcloth. On his chest was painted a wolf's head in yellow, white and black pigments. Tomahawk and knife hung in sheaths against either thigh. A single eagle's-feather was thrust into his scalp-lock. His bronzed face, with its high-arched nose, broad forehead and square jaw, was lit by a grim smile.
"Kwa, Otetiani,"* he said, giving me the Indian name that the Keepers of the Faith had bestowed in placing me upon the roll of the Wolf Clan of the Senecas.