"How do you know that, lad?" asked the baronet.
"I know," replied the boy. "He is a hunter. He is not of the war-party. He is from the salt water."
"He is usually right when he maintains that a thing is so, without being able to give a reason for it," said Kingswell, quietly. "And, if he is, it seems a pity to let the man die out there under our very eyes."
"God knows I do not want any one to suffer," said the baronet, "but may it not be a trick of this Panounia's, or whatever you call him?"
"No trick," replied Ouenwa; and, without so much as "by your leave," he vaulted over the breastwork of faggots and landed lightly on the snow outside the stockade. Without a moment's hesitation, Kingswell followed. Together they started toward the still figure out on the river, at a brisk run. They had reached the bank before Sir Ralph recovered from his astonishment. He quickly descended to the square, and, without attracting any attention, informed William Trigget of what had happened. Trigget and his son immediately ascended to the guns and drew off their tarpaulins. "We'll cover the retreat, sir," said the mariner. They saw their reckless comrades bend over the prostrate stranger. Then Kingswell lifted the apparently lifeless body and started back at a jog trot. Ouenwa lagged behind, with his head continually over his shoulder. The elder Trigget swore a great oath, and smacked a knotty fist into a leathern palm.
"Them's well-plucked uns," he added.
The baronet and John Trigget agreed silently. They were too intent on the approach of the rescuers to speak. Also, they kept a keen outlook along the woods on the farther shore. But the enemy made no sign; and Kingswell, Ouenwa, and the unconscious stranger reached the stockade in safety. The stranger proved to be none other than Black Feather, the stalwart and kindly brave who had built his lodge beside the old arrow-maker's, above Wigwam Harbour, in the days of peace. He was carried into Trigget's cabin and dosed with French brandy until he opened his eyes. He looked about him blankly for a second or two, and then his lids fluttered down again. He had not recognized either Kingswell or Ouenwa.
"Oh, the poor lad, the poor lad," cried Dame Trigget. "Whatever has mun been a-doin' now, to get so distressin' scrawny? An' a fine figger, too, though he be a heathen, without a manner o' doubt."
"Never mind his religious beliefs, dame, but get some of your good venison broth inside of him," said Master Kingswell. "That's a treatment that would surely convert any number of heathen."