And for the first time in my life I knew that I hated men because a woman favoured them.
We had passed through the Continental camp, my Indian and I, and were now going down among the bushes to the Vlaie Water, where lay our canoe, when, of a sudden, a man leaped from the reeds and started to run.
Instantly my Indian was on his shoulders like a tree-cat, and down went both on the soft mud, my Saguenay atop.
I cocked my rifle and poked the muzzle into the prostrate stranger's ribs, resting it so with one hand while I shined my lantern on his upturned face.
He wore a captain's uniform in the Canajoharie Regiment; and, as he stared up at me, his throat still clutched by the Saguenay, I found I was gazing upon the blotched features of Captain Moucher!
"Take your hands from his neck-cloth, cut your thrums, and make a cord to tie him," said I, in the Oneida dialect. "He will not move," I added.
It took the Indian a little while to accomplish this. I held my rifle muzzle to Moucher's ribs. Until his arms were tied fast behind him, he had not spoken to me nor I to him; but now, as he rose to his knees from the mud and then staggered upright, I said to him:
"This is like to be a tragic business for you, Captain Moucher."
He winced but made no reply.
"I am sorry to see you here," I added.