François was on watch, and several times he walked this way. If it had
really been an Indian would not François have seen?"

I pointed him to the forest. "Do you see anything? We seem alone, yet
there are countless eyes watching us, from the squirrel over your head
to the Indian who may be listening now. When you lay on your back just
now did you see anything that looked like a face?"

He shook his head. "No, the space was open. But, monsieur, I have
been over the ground. I can find no track."

I went to the balsam and examined it. Then I called the Englishman and
pointed to a patch of rubbed lichen on the bark above our heads. "His
foot slipped. What was he like? How was his hair dressed?"

He gasped a little. "Monsieur, it could not have been a real Indian.
The rubbed moss,--why, an animal could have done that. As to his
appearance, it was strange. His head was shaved on one side, and he
had long braided hair on the other. Surely it was a dream."

I laughed. "Come, Starling, the canoes are waiting."

"Monsieur, did you ever see an Indian shaved in that way?"

I nodded. "Many times."

"Monsieur, monsieur! What kind of Indians?"

"It is a Huron mode."