"I hope not, little sister."
"You shall see," she repeated, her pretty lip curling as Luysnes began to braid the man's scalp-lock. "You think him a warrior, now, because he is oiled and wears war paint and lock. But I tell you he is only a wild Montagnais hunter. Warriors are not made with a word."
"Sometimes men are," said I pleasantly.
The girl came closer to me, looked up into my face with unfeigned curiosity.
"What manner of white man are you, John?" she asked. "For you speak like a preacher, yet you wear no skirt and cross, as do the priests of the Praying Indians."
"Little sister," said I, taking both her hands, "I am only a young man going into battle for the first time; and I have yet to fire my first shot in anger. If my white and red brothers—and if you, little sister—do full duty this day, then we shall be happy, living or dead. For only those who do their best can look the Holder of Heaven in the face."
She gave me a strange glance; our hands parted. I gave the Canada-sparrow call in the minor key—as often the bird whistles—and, at the signal, all my scouts came creeping in.
"We cross West River here," said I, "and go by the left bank in the same order of march, crossing the shoulder of the mountain by the Big Eddy, then fording the river once more, so as to take their ambuscade from the north and in the rear."
They seemed to understand. The Montagnais, in his new paint, came around behind me like some savage dog that trusts only his owner. And I saw my Oneidas eyeing him as though of two minds whether to ignore him or sink a hatchet into his narrow skull.
"Who first sights a Mohawk," said I, "shall not fire or try to take a scalp to satisfy his own vanity and his desire for glory. No. He shall return to me and report what he sees. For it is my business to order the conduct of this battle.... March!"