But the Andastes, astounded and terrified, only cowered together in a swaying pack.
Restraining Lois with all my strength, I said to the Mohican:
"If Boyd comes not before they take her, concentrate your fire on Amochol, for we can not hope to make him prisoner——"
"Hark!" motioned the Sagamore, grasping my arm. I heard also, and so did the others. The woods on our left were full of noises, the trample of people running, the noise of crackling underbrush.
We all thought the same thing, and stood waiting to see Boyd's onset break from the forest. The Red Priest also heard it, for he had turned where he stood, his rigid arm still menacing the White Sorceress.
Suddenly, into the firelit circle staggered a British soldier, hatless, dishevelled, his scarlet uniform in rags.
For a moment he stood staring about him, swaying where he stood, then with a hopeless gesture he flung his musket from him and passed a shaking hand across his eyes.
"O Amochol!" cried the Sorceress, pointing a slim and steady finger at the bloody soldier. "Have I dreamed lies or have I dreamed the truth? Hearken! The woods are full of people running! Do you hear? And have I lied to you, O Amochol?"
"From whence do you come?" cried Amochol, striding toward the soldier.
"From the Chemung. Except for the dead we all are coming—Butler and Brant and all. Bring out your corn, Seneca! The army starves."