Though Conrad was not allowed to go to Schoharie with his father and the other deputies, he was allowed to see them on their way. The evening following the council at which their plans were made, the moon rose late, a fact which suited their purposes.

"We can slip away in the darkness, and still have the moon to light our journey," said John Conrad. "It may be that they are watching us. There will be two boats, and these must be brought back, since we may find a shorter path through the forest when we return."

Conrad's blue eyes lifted to his father's in appeal.

"Let me go with you and bring the boats back. I can row well and I will be very careful."

John Conrad consulted with his friends. When they said "yes," Conrad rushed to get ready.

The journey to Albany consumed three days. Here and there, where the banks of the river were low, the travelers saw fine farms which they longed to possess. They did not dare to stop, however, to inspect the land, since it seemed to them that they could hear on every breeze the sound of pursuers, bidding them return to the slavery which was worse than death. There were no villages and they passed but few boats. If they were hailed, Conrad answered in the best English he could muster.

Albany was only a small settlement, but here was stationed the garrison of soldiers from which the company had been sent to subdue the Germans, and therefore recognition and arrest were easily possible. The two boats were beached late in the afternoon below the town, and here the deputies hid until nightfall.

When darkness came Conrad, rowing one boat and towing the other, dropped quietly downstream with the current. In a thick wood to which his father had pointed him on the upward journey, he stayed alone during the warm September night. He was tired, but it was a long time before he could go to sleep. He heard a gentle wind moving the treetops; he heard a twig snap near by, as though some wild creature were coming closer and closer with sinister intent. Several times he sprang to his feet. When the dim landscape appeared unchanged and without living inhabitants, he lay down once more.

Still he could not sleep. His thoughts traveled to Livingston Manor with its cruel disappointments, to the long ocean journey, to Blackheath, even to Gross Anspach. What vague, splendid dreams he had had of the future and of the new land! He had dreamed of becoming rich and powerful and important, and all he had succeeded in doing was gathering a few pine knots! Remembering that childish service, he laughed bitterly. If his father had given him his way he might have done better, but his father would not believe that he was a man. Then, before more dreary thoughts came to depress him, he fell asleep, his head pillowed on his arm, his weary body finding the hard ground a downy bed.

Early in the morning he continued his journey down the river, his eyes watching carefully for enemies. But no emissaries of an angry Governor came to meet him. The Germans were, it was plainly evident, wholly abandoned to their misery. Past the tall cliffs, past the open farmlands, where some day would be pleasant villages and towns, he floated. He was hungry, but he had been hungry many times; he was tired, but he did not mind weariness.

At the settlement he found all as it had been. The soldiers had not returned and the agent had vanished. A hundred plans were being made for the journey into the wilderness. A few families announced that they would not go. The Governor would not forsake them utterly; if he did, they would rather seek for help among their fellow countrymen across the river than trust themselves to the forest.

In Albany, the deputies sought out quietly the German families whom they knew and from their houses were able to make inquiries. That there was an Indian settlement of Schoharie was certain. There were at that time in Albany several Mohawk Indians from the neighborhood of Schenectady, another Indian village, who could answer questions. With one, whom the English called John Meyndert, the deputies talked before the day was over. With grunts and nods he promised to be their guide and interpreter, and in his canoe and the canoe of another Indian they traveled to Schenectady, where, after a night's rest, they started across a line of rough hills toward the southwest.

Of the beauties of the September woods the seven deputies saw nothing. With eyes fixed upon the man in front, each man walked doggedly and stubbornly on, determined not to yield to the fatigue which the rapid pace produced. Soft of tread and sure of foot John Meyndert stalked ahead as silent as the tree trunks among which he moved. An occasional "Ugh" when the slipping foot of one of the travelers threatened an ugly fall, or a shake of the head when some one pointed to a fruit or berry which looked as though it were edible, formed his share of the conversation.

At last, at noon of a pleasant day, Meyndert halted his long stride and pointed downward. They had reached and crossed a rough elevation whose loose stones made it almost impossible to climb. Now, wearily, the deputies lifted their eyes toward Meyndert and followed his pointing finger.

It was John Conrad who cried out first.

"Oh, see!"

In a second the last of the party had come out on the little shelf of rock to which Meyndert had led them. Peter Kniskern pointed with a shaking hand.

"Schoharie?"

The Indian answered with a grin.

Then, for a long time, no one spoke a word, and no one moved except to wipe from his eyes the tears of which middle age had learned not to be ashamed.

The smiling valley lay before them, threaded through its broad plain with the river now in flood. Here where they stood the banks rose precipitously; yonder there was a more gradual ascent; but on every side the broad valley was sheltered. The travelers looked their fill, then one by one gave judgment in slow sentences.

"Those are rich and fertile meadows."

"See this fine spring below us!"

"How quickly would fruit trees grow and vineyards cover the hillsides!"

"It is like"—the voice sank to a whisper—"it is like the valleys of Germany!"

As they descended the steep hill, Meyndert pointed out the Indian village at the far end of the valley. It was a time of year when food was abundant and the villages were comfortable. As the visitors approached, children dashed for cover in the neat wigwams set on each side of a narrow street, and women, busy with baking or weaving, looked up in amazement. Toward the tallest of the wigwams, Meyndert led his company. In its doorway sat two Indians smoking, at sight of whom he called a loud "Ho!" For a while the three talked together while the Germans waited, aware from Meyndert's gestures that he was telling their errand. Presently, in response to a shout, several Indian women brought bearskins and deerskins from the wigwam and spread them down under a great tree. Thither the Germans were led, and there they and the three Indians sat down.

At once Meyndert pointed to one of his hosts, enormous of body and painted with snakes and arrows. He called him, as nearly as the Germans could understand, "Quagnant." Quagnant came, so Meyndert indicated by broken sentences and gestures, from a valley beyond. He was a chief over the Indians in this valley as well as his own. He delivered now a long speech, whose meaning Meyndert made fairly clear. He spoke very formally and solemnly after the manner of the Indian people. He and his friends would be glad to have the strangers come among them. He had heard of the wonderful journey of the King of Rivers and other great chiefs who were overlords in the Five Nations, but he did not know what had befallen them or whether they had returned, since they lived far, far to the west. He was sorry that these new brethren had been so afflicted. Here they might have, if they wished, a peaceful haven. His people would help them with food and skins and show them how to build their houses.

Having finished his speech to the happy Germans, Quagnant commanded that a feast be made. Together all ate solemnly of Indian bread and smoked meat, and took great whiffs from a long pipe lighted and passed by Quagnant. Then, supplied with food for the journey and with light hearts, the Germans started for Schenectady.

From Schenectady to Albany the Indians took the travelers in their canoes, then the Germans set out on foot, keeping as near the river as possible. They had traveled for a day when they heard a shout, and looking down saw two rowboats, one containing a passenger, the other towed. With an answering shout they descended the rocky bank to the shore.

"I have been watching and watching," cried Conrad. "Have you been to Schoharie? What did you find? Did you see our friends?"

When a score of questions had tumbled out one after the other, the deputies began to answer. Schoharie was beautiful and fertile beyond all their dreams. The Indians were not only willing to let them have the land, but offered to help them. They had seen nothing of the King of Rivers, but had heard of him.

"They have houses of bark in which they seem to be comfortable, but better houses can easily be made."

"They are satisfied with what they have; therefore Fate has no power over them. If their property is destroyed, they have a great storehouse to draw from for more."

"They made a feast for us and gave us food."

Conrad's blue eyes sought his father's.

"When will we start?"

For an instant John Conrad rowed in silence. His plans would not suit Conrad, the lad who was so young and who thought himself so old, who felt that so little time was still his, and who had a lifetime before him.

"Some will start at once, Conrad. But we will stay in Schenectady until the winter is over. There I have made arrangements with John Meyndert to keep us, and there we will try to earn a little."

Conrad made no answer. He had already seen himself the first of the pilgrims to burst into the quiet valley.

"We shall find peace at last," went on John Conrad. "This Quagnant said no one should molest us, that the land is ours."

In a few days twenty families started for Schoharie. It was late October and already there had been sharp frost. The journey must be made slowly, since there were little children and ailing women in the party. A few had boats for the first part of the way and the others walked along the river-bank, the rustling leaves beneath their feet giving warning of the winter which was rapidly approaching. Hope minimized the dangers and smoothed the rough path.

A little later the Weisers started for Schenectady. Magdalena, like Catrina in Gross Anspach, feared the journey for her baby, and with her husband crossed the river to the older German settlement on the other side. Like Catrina, she wept bitterly.

When bundles had been packed by a silent, pale Margareta, when John Conrad had already lifted his pack to his shoulder, Fate, which had played the Weisers many cruel tricks, became suddenly friendly. A rowboat grounded on the little beach and a young man sprang out and hailed John Conrad, who stared at him without answering. But the young man did not wait for John Conrad's slow mental processes; he hurried toward the pale girl who gazed as though she saw a ghost. A single joyful "Margareta!" made clear to the settlement that Margareta's prayers had been answered.

Now the starting must be delayed another day. Across the river rowed Conrad to bring Magdalena and her husband and the preacher back with him; about the reunited lovers sat all the Germans. Young Baer had a good place and he had built a little house. He had written many times, though no letter had come from Margareta.

"It was the wicked agent who kept the letters," said Margareta. "God be thanked we are free from him!"

Best of all, young Baer had seen Christopher and George Frederick who lived not far away.

"They are well cared for and happy, and they look for their sister. Peter Zenger, who lives near by, watches for her also."

At this all the tender-hearted Germans wept once more. The parting from Margareta was lightened by the expectation that they would meet again. Once more the star of hope shone brightly.

In the lodge of John Meyndert the Weisers settled themselves in November. It was not clean, but they could endure discomfort a little longer. The chief difficulty was the drunkenness of Meyndert, who had learned the white man's evil habit.

From Meyndert John Conrad and his son tried, in the long, idle hours, to learn the Indian language. They hunted eagerly for work in the settlement, but there was no work to be had. With thankfulness John Conrad accepted the offer of an Englishwoman to take Sabina into service. The Indian lodge was not a suitable home for either her or little Barbara. At restless, unhappy Conrad his father looked uneasily. Even the village of Schenectady offered mischief to idle hands.

"You could teach the little children, lad," said he.

"I want a man's work," answered Conrad sullenly.

Then, as in the London fog, Conrad had a strange experience.

There was fog, also, here by the Mohawk River, by which he walked early one November morning. Again he went with head bent, kicking the leaves and pebbles before him. Again he felt that stubborn head strike an obstacle and himself fly backward. When, in amazement, he picked himself up, he was confounded. There was no obstacle before him. There was neither tree nor rock. Puzzled and alarmed, he turned toward the settlement. Presently he looked back. By this time the mist had lifted, and behind him he saw a gigantic Indian. Conrad stopped as though his feet were weighted and the great body, wrapped in a bright new blanket, bore down upon him. The Indian grunted his queer "Ho, Ho," and motioned Conrad to lead the way. That he had no unkindly intention was made clear by the smile which his little trick brought to his face.

At the first flat rock to which they came he bade Conrad sit down. He drew from the bundle which he carried on his shoulders a loaf of Indian bread and broke off a large piece.

"Eat," said he in the Mohawk language. "Who are you?"

"I am John Conrad Weiser's son Conrad," answered Conrad, thankful for each moment spent in learning the rudiments of John Meyndert's language.

"To Weiser we gave a gift. Why does he not come to take it?" This was the meaning of the next sentence as nearly as Conrad could guess.

"He will come in the springtime."

"And you?" The Indian looked earnestly into Conrad's blue eyes, as though astonished at their vivid color.

"Oh, yes!" cried Conrad.

The Indian said no more, but rose and walked toward the settlement, motioning Conrad to follow. His long stride soon left Conrad far behind and Conrad started to run, to find a grinning Indian waiting for him behind a tree, or calling to him from the rear. Presently, when the Indian's ruse brought them face to face, Conrad pointed to himself.

"I am Conrad," said he. "Who are you?"

"Quagnant," was the answer.

He it was who had given the Germans their hearty welcome!

When they entered the settlement, Conrad would have liked to follow the chief as he went from Indian house to Indian house, but he did not dare.

To Meyndert's lodge Quagnant came late in the afternoon, and there sat himself down on a pile of deerskins near the fire. He had come, he said, to hold a conversation with the white chief. At a sign from her husband, John Meyndert's squaw rose and went away, beckoning John Conrad's family to follow. For an instant Conrad thought that he was to remain. Then Quagnant, hitherto so kind, pointed to him, and Meyndert bade him go also. Offended, Conrad did not return till hunger drove him back after dark.

Then the family, except John Conrad, were asleep; as Conrad lifted the curtain of skins which hung across the door, his father rose from beside the dying fire and led him outside. In the starlight he walked up and down with his hand on his boy's shoulder.

"Conrad, I have an offer to set before you. I have kept you with me, both because I could not find any opening for you and because I could not bear to let you go. This Indian Quagnant has asked me to let you go with him to his village, there 'to learn to be a man,' as he puts it. He means that they will teach you how to hunt and trap and how to make a home in the wilderness. Would you like to enter on this strange apprenticeship?"

Conrad's full heart breathed a great sigh.

"Yes, father."

"You cannot come back until spring. The training in Indian ways may be very irksome."

"Not as irksome as idleness."

For an hour father and son talked, entering once more upon the future with a tender recalling of the past. Then they went to bed.

In the misty morning Conrad started away, a little bundle on his back. He kissed the sleeping Barbara, he put both arms about his father's neck, then he followed the tall Indian who walked before him, silent, mysterious, his tall figure dim in the fog.

They crossed the wet meadow and walked for an hour by the stream-side, then Quagnant turned into the forest. They ascended a rocky hill, they followed a narrow valley, they climbed another hill. When the sun was high in the sky, they ate a lunch of corn bread and dried fish from Quagnant's pack. Then, already footsore and stiff, Conrad followed doggedly the long stride which led farther and farther into the wilderness.