"A wanderer lost in the forest. A spy from the fortress. One of Roussilac's creatures," his father muttered.
"They would take possession of the forest," the boy said passionately. "Along the river I have come upon trees marked by the robbers with—what is the name of that sign which they bear upon their flag?"
"The fleur-de-lys. They brand the pines with that mark to signify that the trees have been chosen for ship-masts and are the property of France. Our hut upon the island is faced with logs which bear their brand."
"The Cayugas fell such trees and burn them, or cut them in half as they lie. The Iroquois are yet masters, despite the decrees of King Louis. How cold is this wind! Let me but warm my hands in the embers of our fire."
The boy crossed into the moonlight, and knelt within the smoke, rubbing the palms of his hands upon the warm ground. His father stood in the shadow, and watched every moving line of his son's body, muttering as he listened to the outside:
"At his age I was learning how to figure and spell in Tonbridge school. Quarterstaff and tennis were my sports, with mumming and chess at home. His sport is to hunt the wild beast, to track the deer, to lie in wait for men. The sword is his pastime. His pleasure the dream. God pardon me for bringing him into the world."
The breeze bore along in a gust, bringing the muffled bayings of a hound.
"He calls me!" exclaimed the boy. "That is Blood's war-cry. Come!" he shouted.
"Patience, boy. Let the dog guide us. By advancing recklessly we may fall into a trap."
Each throb of the night brought the wild sounds nearer. Blood was in full cry, the foam blowing from his jaws, the hackles stiff upon his back. He was coming down the wind full-stretched. The bush gave, the dew scattered from the high grass in frosty showers as he leapt the moss-beds, his foot-tracks far apart. But no sound followed, except the play of the branches and the murmur of the rising lake.