At nightfall the travelers camped in the shelter of a huge boulder. Quagnant made a fire by rubbing two sticks together; then he spread the embers about and started other fires close to the face of the rock. When they had burned themselves out, he bade Conrad lie down on the warmed ground. Faintly aware that Quagnant went on with some other device for making him comfortable, Conrad slept.

In the morning he found that he lay in a tent formed by the boughs of evergreens and that he was still comfortably warm. Quagnant had shot a bird which he was roasting over the fire. When it was eaten and the fire was tramped out, Quagnant shouldered his pack. He looked up at the sky, shook his head, and started briskly away.

Until noon Quagnant led the way across rough hills and through narrow valleys. While they ate their lunch, the snow began to fall and Quagnant grunted his annoyance. Soon the rocks were slippery and the trail hard to find. There were other hills and other valleys and another exhausted sleep at night.

On the third day, Conrad was certain that he could not rise. Quagnant helped him up and many times in the morning slackened his pace or stopped entirely. In the afternoon he stopped short and bade Conrad look ahead. They had come round the shoulder of a hill and were looking into a broad valley. Here there had been no snow and the meadows were green. Through the center of the valley ran a stream, broad and full and smoothly flowing.

"I see people!" cried Conrad. "They are building houses!"

Suddenly Conrad's heart throbbed against his side.

"Schoharie!" he cried. "Is this Schoharie?"

Quagnant grinned.

"Schoharie," he repeated.

Conrad tried to wave his hand, but could make only a feeble motion. He began to talk in a queer, uncertain way, and Quagnant, looking at him uneasily, took him by the arm, and presently lifted him to his back. On he went until at dusk he stepped into a path worn into a deep rut. Ahead were lights and the sound of voices.

When Conrad was allowed to slip from the broad back to a soft pile of deerskins, he felt that all the comforts he had ever known were combined in one delicious sensation. That Schoharie lay far behind him he did not know: that the faces about him were dark, the voices strange,—all were matters of indifference. He felt the rim of a warm cup against his lips, then he fell asleep.

The sun had been long in the sky when he woke. He was in an oblong house of bark. Through a hole in the roof the sun streamed upon the ashes of a fire. On the walls hung guns and bows and arrows and strange long spears and about were piles of furs, on one of which lay a little case of bark from which there issued the scream of a hungry baby.

At once a young woman lifted the curtain at the door. Before taking her baby, she looked at Conrad, and finding him awake, nodded and smiled. In a moment she brought a wooden bowl filled with broth. Conrad drained the bowl and lay back once more.

When, late in the afternoon, he lifted the curtain, he found himself in a village of bark houses. At the far end of the single street children were playing, and from the ashes of a fire a woman was taking a loaf of Indian bread. She gave a little call and at once other women appeared and the children came closer.

"Where is Quagnant?" asked Conrad.

The women imitated the sighting of a gun and pointed to their mouths. The children, dressed in little coats and leggings of leather, pointed with amazement to Conrad's fair skin and then at their own dark cheeks. Finally one came close to him.

"Eyes-like-the-Sky," said he, and his companions repeated the strange name.

It was repeated again when the hunters returned with deer meat, and there seemed to be general satisfaction with the discernment of the little boy whose own name was Young Deer.

At once the women prepared the feast. Portions of the meat were set aside to be smoked; the rest was divided into slices and broiled. There was no seasoning and the Indian bread was coarse, but the meal was better than many which the guest had eaten.

For a few days Conrad watched the play of the children, who showed him haunts of beaver and woodchuck, and taught him to make and spin a heart-shaped top of wood. With them he played Blind Man's Buff, in which the bandage across his eyes was his own dullness of vision which could not see the little figure lying among the leaves. He watched also the women braiding their baskets and grinding earth into the paint for the faces and bodies of their husbands.

In the evening he sat with the Indians in Quagnant's house. At first their speech was a strange jargon, but gradually the sounds stayed in his mind and were associated with the objects to which they belonged. The comfortable nights in the chief's wigwam and the good food put color into his cheeks and flesh on his thin body.

But idleness and luxury did not long endure. He had come to look upon the deerskins which served him for a bed as his own. One night, when he wished to lie down, they were gone. He asked for them and was laughed at.

"You have no deerskin," said Quagnant.

In the morning Quagnant gave him a gun and led the way into the forest. Three days later when they returned, Quagnant had two deerskins and Conrad none. Again he slept on the ground and again he went with Quagnant into the forest. On the third journey he shot a buck.

For one night after the skin was dressed, he slept upon it in the chief's house. At the next nightfall he found himself and his bed thrust outside. The Indians laughed at his astonishment and every laugh said, "Make a house for yourself!"

With the advice and aid of the children, Conrad built himself a wigwam. At once Quagnant demolished it.

"Wind come—house gone. Eyes-like-the-Sky can do better."

When his house was finished to Quagnant's satisfaction, Conrad had a few days of peace. Then for a day he was allowed no food; then for two days; then for three. He was taken to a distant point in the forest and required to find his way home. One bitter day he was dropped into a deep, icy pond in a near-by stream.

As he understood more of the language, he listened earnestly to the talk of the older Indians. Through all ran the consciousness of danger,—distant, perhaps, but real. Sometimes messengers from other tribes appeared suddenly in the village. Painted, armed, terrible, they talked always of the bow and the string, the long line of the French whom they called Onotio, and the shorter line of English whom they called Onas.

"Upon Onas Onotio will make war. When we walk in the forest we hear it shouted by the trees. We will all ally ourselves with Onas."

When there came to the village those who would exterminate all pale-faces, Quagnant hurried Conrad out of the way. In January five great chiefs came to visit Quagnant. Conrad gazed at them earnestly, hoping to see the King of Rivers. They looked back at him scowling and muttering, and Conrad retreated to his wigwam.

The chiefs went to Quagnant's house, and before them the women placed broiled venison and wild turkey. Afterwards long pipes were solemnly smoked. Then Quagnant gave a command to Little Squaw into whose eyes came a frightened look. Quagnant saw her hesitate.

"Go!" he shouted.

Hidden away in the cache of Quagnant, where there was now little else, there were a few black bottles, paid to him in return for many beautiful skins carried to Schenectady. Little Squaw fetched them as she was bidden.

In the middle of the night Conrad heard the sound of carousing and looked out. The fire-water had done its evil work, and the Indians sought some victim upon whom to spend their madness. There was a flash of steel and past Conrad's head flew a sharp axe. Other weapons flashed in the moonlight. Terrified, without blanket or other extra covering, Conrad fled into the forest.

Two days later in a blinding snowstorm he ventured to return. Whether Quagnant remembered his behavior it was difficult to tell. His visitors had gone, and he sat, sullen and miserable, beside the fire in the wigwam, making no answer to the complaints of Little Squaw.

"The cache is almost empty," said she. "All the summer I labored and now you have given large presents to the Oneidas. I saw them go heavily laden. Now we will have a great storm when no hunting can be done."

The first day of the snowstorm Conrad spent in repairing the damage to his wigwam. He thought of his father and his brothers and sisters, and wondered once more, in deep depression, to what goal his wanderings would bring him. At nightfall he ate the last of his food.

It was still dark when he woke in the morning; at least no light came through the chinks of the wigwam or through the opening at the top. Stiff and sore, he turned and slept. When he woke again, he sprang up and went to lift the curtain at the door. To his amazement he looked into darkness. When he thrust out his hand he discovered that it was not night which surrounded him, but a wall of snow, higher than the wigwam.

He was not at first alarmed. He had heard more than one story of imprisonment for days while the great snows fell. The snow was porous, and the wigwams, thus blanketed, were warm. He had, it was true, no food, but he could go without food for a day or two. He was still not thoroughly rested and he would sleep.

He was wakened by what sounded like the report of a gun. His heart failed. Perhaps Quagnant's friends had come back and were prepared to finish the work which they had threatened! Again there came the sharp explosion. Now Conrad remembered the cold nights of the great frost in Gross Anspach when the trees had cracked like pistols. The snow must have ceased to fall and rescue would soon come.

In the morning his mind was not clear. He heard a whistling sound in the top of the wigwam and saw a pale light filtering in. Deep drifts must be forming.

"It will be best to stay here," said he heavily.

As the hours passed he fell into a stupor. The wind died, the light of sunset showed for a few minutes in a yellow haze at the top of the wigwam, and once more through the long night the trees cracked like pistols.

Quagnant and his squaw and their large brood got comfortably through the three days of imprisonment. Quagnant grew mild and peaceable; he told stories to the children and obeyed his wife. But when she ordered him to go and dig Conrad out, he sent several young Indians in his place. The recollection of the flying hatchet disturbed him.

"I will drink no more fire-water," he promised himself solemnly.

Run-as-the-Wind and Turkey Feather and Young Deer all worked diligently with the hoes which they borrowed from their mothers. As they approached the door of the wigwam they cried,—

"Eyes-like-the-Sky! Wake up! Wake up!"

When there was no answer they worked faster.

"Perhaps Eyes-like-the-Sky had no food!"

"A bear might have devoured him as he slept!"

"He is brave; he would kill the bear."

When they had reached the door of the wigwam and still Conrad did not answer, the rescuing party grew very quiet. Little Squaw was the first to thrust her head through the hole which the boys made.

"He lies here like the snow itself! Quick! some hot broth from Quagnant's kettle!"

With a wooden spoon she forced a few drops through Conrad's lips, then a little more. Then she sent Turkey Feather to Quagnant.

"Tell Quagnant a good bed is to be made by the fire. Tell him Little Squaw sends him this and this." And Little Squaw picked up the hatchets of Quagnant and his friends.

That night the Mohawk village feasted again. Relieved by the ending of the storm and the restoration of Conrad, the squaws forgot the alarming emptiness of each family cache.

The snow thawed little by little. When a crust formed, it was not thick enough to bear the weight of the hunters. Food grew more scarce and the usual two meals a day dwindled to one. Another heavy snow made hunting impossible. More sullen grew the warriors, more angry the squaws, more miserable the little children.

After the second great snow a crust formed and Quagnant started at once into the forest, taking Conrad with him. The two crossed the hill which lay toward the west and followed the next valley to the north. It was bitterly cold; insufficiently clad and weak from lack of food, Conrad trudged along, his heart heavy, his mind dull. To him now the new country was a trap in which all the Germans would be finally lost. Quagnant did not speak except to give sullen orders. At nightfall the two camped supperless and without shelter. There was now no warming of a bed, since the wood lay deep under the snow.

When the two took up their weary journey, it seemed to Conrad that Quagnant tried deliberately to court death. He climbed another western hill, and his voice became more gruff. Was it possible that he meant to lead Conrad far away and desert him? Then there would be one less mouth in the Indian village.

The sun was high when they came to the top of the hill. Another valley lay before them with a swift, dark stream flowing through its center. Another hill rose opposite. Conrad wondered drearily whether his numb feet must climb that also.

"I wish that the end would come soon," said he bitterly. "I wish—"

Walking heedlessly as he had walked on the Schenectady meadow, Conrad came with a thump into the same obstacle. Before him Quagnant had stopped rigid. Terrified, Conrad looked up. Quagnant was staring down into the valley, where along the stream beside a deep pool a small herd of deer nibbled the green laurel leaves. They were almost motionless and they were within easy shot.

Quagnant pulled the trigger and a deer dropped. His comrades lifted their heads, but before they could dash away in terror another fell. The flight of the remainder soon ended. Before them the stream plunged over a precipice; on both sides the icy walls rose steeply. A third and a fourth fell before Quagnant's accurate shots. There was a glow on his dark cheeks, a fire in his black eyes. He took a step to one side and pulled the trigger again.

Then, in spite of the silence to which he had been trained, Quagnant gave a fierce yell. He had gone a little too near the edge of the steep slope. His feet slipped as the gun recoiled and he slid, making frantic efforts to regain his footing.

But his efforts were vain. With increasing speed he coasted down the hillside, his course leading straight toward the rocky wall which dropped abruptly for at least fifty feet. It was as though an insect should slip down the side of a cup with sure drowning in the bottom. Then, near the brink of the pool, a bush caught the pack on his shoulders and held him suspended.

Now Quagnant was silent. The deer thongs which bound the pack were strong, but his body was heavy. He could see below him the black pool. In its icy water he might keep himself afloat for a few seconds, but to climb out would be impossible. Across the stream he could see the bodies of the slain deer, food for all his people, and he could hear the snow crust breaking as the others made their escape. Conrad, far above him in safety, he could not see.

Quagnant shut his eyes and listened to the gurgle of the water and looked into his poor Indian soul. The logic of the case was simple. He could not move without help, and Conrad would not help him. He had abused the pale-face and the pale-face would certainly desert him. Even if there were mercy in his heart, Conrad could not come down the hill without risking his life nor return to the village for help before Quagnant would die of cold.

Then Quagnant heard above the gurgle of the water a strange sound as though some one were following his wild flight. There was the sound of sliding feet, then silence, then again the sound of sliding feet. Presently began a sharp chip, chip, as though the ice were being struck with a hatchet. Quagnant, with eyes still closed, began to address the Great Spirit.

"I pray that I may not be cut off from my present life, Great and Good Spirit."

Nearer and nearer came the sound of chipping; higher and higher rose the hopes of Quagnant. It would be fearful, indeed, to slip over the precipice with rescue at hand! But was it rescue? Quagnant remembered again with sickening pain the sharp hatchet hurled at Conrad. It was that very hatchet which Conrad held in his hand!

Now Quagnant could feel each stroke on the ice. They were near his head—he gave himself up. They had passed his head and were even with his waist—he dared to breathe again. When the chipping had sounded for a long time beside his foot, he felt a hand touch his foot and move it to a hole in the ice in which it could find support. Thus aided, he was able to lift his arms and draw himself up beside the little bush. Near by, supporting himself by a tree, sat Conrad.

With immobile countenance and without even his customary grunt, Quagnant climbed the mountain in the tracks which Conrad had made. After he had rested for a few minutes and had ceased to tremble, he walked along the ridge until he found an easy descent to the stream and to the carcases of the deer. He did not speak until he had dressed a portion of the meat with his long knife and cooked it over a little fire of driftwood which had been carried high on the bank where it had been protected by thick laurel and hemlock shrubbery. This he would not touch until Conrad had eaten. Then at last he spoke.

"A cloud had come between us, Conrad, and the skies were dark. It is past now forever and the skies are clear."

Hiding in the stream, away from the sharp claws of panther or wildcat, the meat which they could not carry, the two set out for home. The next day the hunters brought in, not only Quagnant's kill, but three more deer. That evening Conrad was invited to the feast of the grown men and was given a long pipe. He did not like the strong tobacco, but he did his best to smoke, aware that he had been paid a great honor. At him Quagnant looked solemnly, both during the feast and afterwards when they sat together by the fire. In Quagnant's mind was taking shape a strange plan, at once brilliant and cunning. If Conrad could have looked into the chief's mind and could have seen there, slowly forming, the last episode in his strange apprenticeship, he might well have been terrified. The meeting in the London fog was about to bear its fruit.

At last the sullen winter was past and the trees began to bud and the meadows to grow green. The women prepared their little patches of ground for maize and potatoes, old canoes were mended and new canoes were built, the young men began to court and the maidens to grow more shy. When Conrad spoke of joining his father, who must be by this time in Schoharie, Quagnant shook his head.

"You have been with us through the cruel winter: you cannot leave when the Great Spirit is making all things beautiful."

Now dark forms glided through the forest once more, as though there were perpetual patrol in its dim aisles. Messengers came to the village, messengers were sent away. The Mohawks spoke of their country as the Long House whose back was at the Hudson River and whose door was Niagara. In the spring weather all the inhabitants were astir.

One morning, at dawn, Conrad felt a touch on his shoulder and sprang up as he had been trained. Quagnant stood before him, enormous in the pale light. In his hand he held a new suit of doeskin and a bowl of the red paint with which his tribe painted stars and turtles on their cheeks. With a few strokes he decorated Conrad's tanned face. Together they ate and upon the shoulder of each Little Squaw fastened a pack of food and a blanket.

"Where are we going?" asked Conrad.

Quagnant made no answer except to motion Conrad to follow him through the village. There, with his long stride, Quagnant took up the trail toward the southwest.