Fred Godfrey, as may well be supposed, was amazed at the words of Habakkuk McEwen, but he believed the fellow was simply descending to this subterfuge in the hope of saving his life.

Understanding the nature of the man as well as he did, he could not find fault, and he made an effort to help him, without telling a clear untruth.

"I can say that before and after I joined my friends, he behaved very differently from the others."

"How?"

"He was asked to do several things for their benefit and refused, and he favored this attempt to get away by leaving the place where we had taken shelter in the rocks."

"That's because he was too cowardly to do anything else," broke in Mr. Brainerd.

"Did lie fire either of those shots that brought down a couple of our men?"

"I believe not-did he, Mr. Brainerd?"

"No; he can't shoot well enough to hit a flock of barns ten feet off, and he shivered so with fear he couldn't hold his gun in hand."

"That's a lie!" exclaimed Habakkuk, who began to feel hopeful; "I had a dozen chances to pick off some of the red men and I wouldn't do it, 'cause I was their friend."

"Wal, I'll 'tend to you after awhile," said Golcher, puzzled by the turn matters had taken. "You folks may sit down on the log a while, and I'll 'tend to another matter."

During this curious conversation the Senecas were grouped on the other side of the camp-fire, so that the faces of captors as well as captured were shown in the glare of the blaze, upon which more wood was flung.

Fred Godfrey regretted this, having resolved to make a break whenever the chance presented itself, for there was no mercy to be expected for him. The Senecas were impatient, and he was well aware that Jake Golcher hated him with a hatred that would stop at nothing in the way of suffering.

If convinced that the death of a soldier would be his, he would have stayed and died, like the brave youth he was.

But once away and he might do something for those who were dearer to him than his own life.

While he stood listening to the conversation recorded, he sought to finish that which he had tried to accomplish all the way thither—that was, to loosen the bonds that held his elbows and wrists as if they were bound with iron.

He could not make any progress, and he began to feel as though he had deferred the step too long. He thought to have overturned his immediate guards, and dashed in the woods, before reaching the camp of the Senecas.

This was destined to be an eventful night to all concerned. The Tory had taken a step toward Maggie Brainerd, with the manifest intention of addressing her, when a new-comer appeared on the scene, in the person of an Indian runner from the other side of the river.

It was evident he came from high authorities, with orders. From what followed, it is probable that the leaders of the Indians and Tories felt there was need of additional forces on the western bank, to complete the work of which much still remained to do.

Forty Fort, which contained many of the settlers, and women and children, had not yet surrendered, and the massacre could not be completed so long as a remnant of the patriots held out.

That such was the errand of the runner appeared from the fact that he addressed himself directly to Gray Panther, who the next moment summoned Golcher to his side, and the three held a brief conversation.

The captives naturally fixed their attention on them and noticed that they gesticulated, and the Tory indulged in a number of expressions in English that were of a vigorous nature.

Some of the Senecas sauntered over in front of the sorrowful group, and looked at them with natural curiosity. Habakkuk McEwen, on account of his fantastic dress and paint, still attracted the most notice, and some of the warriors ventured on a remark or two in their own tongue, but he made no answer, and did his utmost to maintain a dignified bearing.

"Habakkuk," said Fred Godfrey, in a low voice, "what did you mean by telling that wretch such a story?"

"Sh! keep quiet," replied McEwen, in an undertone, and without looking toward the one he was addressing; "you know it's my only chance."

There was a moment of silence, when both Fred and his father were disposed to suspect the fellow of treachery, but second thought convinced them that he meant well enough, and was only making a natural effort to gain the favor of the man who held his life in his hands.

It was in accordance with the natural instinct of the fellow, who was more than willing to resort to any artifice that promised to avert the doom hanging over his head.

It is scarcely necessary to say that he was the only one who would ask mercy at the hands of Jake Golcher, or who would pretend any sentiment other than an utter abhorrence of him.