slain man in a sort of pity. He had not wished to take anyone's
life, and, in reality, he had not been the direct cause of it.
But it was a stern time and the feeling soon passed. The
Wyandot, for such he was by his paint, would never have felt a
particle of remorse had the victory been his.

The moon was now coming out, and Henry looked down thoughtfully
at the still face. Then the idea came to him, in fact leaped up
in his brain, with such an impulse that it carried conviction.
He would take this warrior's place and go to the Indian camp. So
eager was he, and so full of his plan, that he did not feel any
repulsion as he opened the warrior's deerskin shirt and took his
totem from a place near his heart. It was a little deerskin bag
containing a bunch of red feathers. This was his charm, his
magic spell, his bringer of good luck, which had failed him so
woefully this time. Henry, not without a touch of the forest
belief, put it inside his own hunting shirt, wishing, although he
laughed at himself, that if the red man's medicine had any
potency it should be on his own side.

Then he found also the little bag in which the Indian carried his
war paint and the feather brush with which he put it on. The
next hour witnessed a singular transformation. A white youth was
turned into a red warrior. He cut his own hair closely, all
except a tuft in the center, with his sharp hunting knife. The
tuft and the close crop he stained black with the Indian's paint.
It was a poor black, but he hoped that it would pass in the
night. He drew the tuft into a scalplock, and intertwined it
with a feather from the Indian's own tuft. Then he stained his
face, neck, hands, and arms with the red paint, and stood forth a