At this time, the warrior in front stood calmly contemplating them, as if sure there was no escape, and nothing could be added to the terror of the patriots.
"Let us turn down the river," said the brave-hearted Maggie, thrusting the pole into the water again; "they have not captured us yet, and it is better we should all be shot than fall into——"
Just then the four were struck dumb by hearing the savage in front call out:
"What have you stopped work for? Don't turn down the river; hurry over, or those consarned Iroquois will overhaul you!"
Unquestionably that was not the voice of an Indian!
And yet the words were spoken by the painted individual who confronted them, and whom they held in such terror.
He must have suspected their perplexity, for, noticing that they still hesitated, his mouth expanded into a broad grin, as he added:
"Don't you know me? I'm Habakkuk McEwen, and I'm ready to do all I can for you. Hurry up, Gravity; use that pole in the right direction, Maggie; cheer up, Eva, and how are you, Aunt Peggy?"
No words can picture the relief of the little party, on learning that he whom they mistook for an Indian was a white man and a friend.
Habakkuk McEwen was a neighbor, as he had called himself, and came from the same section in Connecticut which furnished the Brainerds and most of the settlers in the Wyoming Valley.