He heard us as we came through the orchard, and he raised his head to smile a welcome. But there was that in his eyes which told me to stay there with him after the others had trooped in to be fed, and I waited.
Presently he said: "Quider is sick. Did you discover anything in his face that might betoken—a—a fever?"
"His eyes," I said.
"Was he blotched? My sight is dim these years."
"His face was over-red," I answered, wondering.
Sir William said nothing more. After a little while he rose, leaning on his cane, and passed heavily under the fruit-trees towards the house.
That night came our doctor, Pierson, galloping from the village with an urgent message for Sir William. Later I saw soldiers set out with bayonets on their muskets, and, with them, the doctor, leading his horse.
In the morning we knew that the small-pox had seized the Cayuga, and that our soldiers patrolled Quider's lodge to warn all men of the black pest.
The days which followed were busy days for us all—days fraught with bustle and perplexity—hours which hurried on, crowding one on another like pages turning in a book—turning too swiftly for me to cipher the ominous text.
All Sir William's hopes of averting war were now centred in the stricken Cayuga. He and I haunted the neighbourhood of Quider's lodge, staring for hours at the silent hut in the clearing, or, rambling by starlight, we watched the candle burning in the lodge door as though it were the flame of life, now flaring, now sinking in its socket.