Dorothy's voice died away; she stretched out one arm.
"This is the end, O you wise men and sachems, told since the beginning to us People of the Morning. Hiro [I have spoken]!"
Then a startling thing occurred; up from the underbrush behind us rose a tall Indian warrior, naked to the waist, painted from belt to brow with terrific, nameless emblems and signs. I sprang to my feet, horror-struck; the savage folded his arms, quietly smiling; and I saw knife and hatchet resting in his belt and a long rifle on the moss at his feet.
"Kôue! That was a true tale," he said, in good English. "It is a miracle that one among you sings the truth concerning us poor Mohawks."
"Do you come in peace?" I asked, almost stunned.
He made a gesture. "Had I come otherwise, you had known it!" He looked straight at Dorothy. "You are the patroon's daughter. Does he speak as truthfully of the Mohawks as do you?"
"Who are you?" I asked, slowly.
He smiled again. "My name is Brant," he said.