June laughed, held up her four fingers again, and then pointed to her two thumbs; passing a finger over the first, she repeated the words “red-coats;” and touching the last, she added, “Saltwater,” “Quartermaster.” All this was being very accurate, and Mabel began to entertain serious doubts as to the propriety of her permitting her visitor to depart without her becoming more explicit. Still it was so repugnant to her feelings to abuse the confidence this gentle and affectionate creature had evidently reposed in her, that Mabel had no sooner admitted the thought of summoning her uncle, than she rejected it as unworthy of herself and unjust to her friend. To aid this good resolution, too, there was the certainty that June would reveal nothing, but take refuge in a stubborn silence, if any attempt were made to coerce her.
“You think, then, June,” Mabel continued, as soon as these thoughts had passed through her mind, “that I had better live in the blockhouse?”
“Good place for woman. Blockhouse got no scalp. Logs t'ick.”
“You speak confidently, June; as if you had been in it, and had measured its walls.”
June laughed; and she looked knowing, though she said nothing.
“Does any one but yourself know how to find this island? Have any of the Iroquois seen it?”
June looked sad, and she cast her eyes warily about her, as if distrusting a listener.
“Tuscarora, everywhere—Oswego, here, Frontenac, Mohawk—everywhere. If he see June, kill her.”
“But we thought that no one knew of this island, and that we had no reason to fear our enemies while on it.”
“Much eye, Iroquois.”