"Mayaro," said I, amused, "is a battle then near at hand that you make so complete a preparation for it?"
A half-smile appeared for a moment on his lips:
"It is always well to be prepared for life or death, Loskiel, my younger brother."
"Oho!" said I, smiling. "You understood the express rider when he said that Indians had fired on our pickets a week ago!"
The stern and noble countenance of the Sagamore relaxed into the sunniest of smiles.
"My little brother is very wise. He has discovered that the Siwanois have ears like white men."
"Aye—but, Sagamore, I was not at all certain that you understood in English more than 'yes' and 'no.'"
"Is it because," he inquired with a merry glance at me, "my brother has only heard as yet the answer 'no' from Mayaro?"
I bit my lip, reddened, and then laughed at the slyly taunting reference to my lack of all success in questioning him concerning the little maiden, Lois.
At the same time, I realized on what a friendly footing I already stood with this Mohican. Few white men ever see an Iroquois or a Delaware laugh; few ever witness any relaxation in them or see their coldly dignified features alter, except in scorn, suspicion, pride, and anger. Only in time of peace and amid their own intimates or families do our Eastern forest Indians put off the expressionless and dignified mask they wear, and become what no white man believes them capable of becoming—human, tender, affectionate, gay, witty, talkative, as the moment suits.