"Do thou lean too, Mother, with thy cheek near mine, that I may thee if thou dotht in truth look ath much like me ath folk say."
As he spoke Cecil gave a little tug at his mother's sleeve and drew her to the margin, where she too stooped and looked down smiling at the golden curls and rosy cheeks of her boy looking up at her from the water.
An instant later she caught another reflection, the face of a red man peering from the bushes over her shoulder. With an inward start she realized that they were on a by-path and beyond call of help.
"Come, Cecil," she cried, striving to speak lightly, though she was conscious that her voice shook. "Pick up thy pitcher, for we must be going. Make haste, too, lest Cousin Margaret be at the house before us."
"Nay, Mother, 'tith tho fair beautiful here," began Cecil, turning toward his mother with pleading in his voice.
As he turned, his eyes too caught the Indian's face even as it was withdrawn into the shadow.
"Why, 'tis the same native I did see on the wharf—"
"Never mind, Cecil, who or what it is, but make good speed for home and I will follow. There, give me the pitcher. Now, run!"
They reached the cottage door panting and out of breath just as Margaret Brent was dismounting from her donkey.