Chapter IV: Part 4

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.

X

JOURNEY'S END

It would be difficult to tell which fared the worse during the long winter, the Germans who had forced their way to the Schoharie Valley in November, or those who remained, like John Conrad, in the settlements. All were poor, all were ill-clad, all were insufficiently fed. The cruel winter continued the weeding-out of the weak. At Schoharie the Indians helped the newcomers according to their promise, and what food and furs they could spare they gave cheerfully.

In March, John Conrad and all those who had remained started to Schoharie. There were indications of an early spring, and it was important that crops should be sown. From Conrad nothing had been heard and his father grew daily more anxious. Sabina, like Margareta and Magdalena, had found a mate, and Barbara had taken her place with the kind Englishwoman.

No sooner had the journey begun than the last of the winter's storms was upon the little party. Little children died and grown persons suffered cruelly. Joined with their friends at Schoharie in the valley of their dreams, the pilgrims waited, with what patience they could summon, for spring.

When, finally, the snow had melted for the last time and the meadows were growing green and the willows were yellow along the river, the hearts of the Germans rested at last. The lovely valley was lovelier than their dreams. Log houses were built, farms were laid out, and with their poor tools they prepared to create a German valley which should bloom like the rose.

Still no word of Conrad was to be had. He was in the village of Quagnant to the west--that the Indians knew, but they could tell no more. His father grew more and more anxious and unhappy. As he worked the soil, he lifted his head to watch; when his day's work was done, he walked into the forest toward the west.

Meanwhile, as Conrad followed the long stride of Quagnant through the budding forest, he remembered the weary journey in November from Schenectady to the Indian village. Then he had nearly perished with exhaustion; now he walked without weariness. Quagnant remembered also and commented approvingly.

"Eyes-like-the-Sky does not stumble or faint. He is a true Indian."

"This is a smooth trail."

In Indian fashion Quagnant made a comparison.

"That was a smooth trail, but to Eyes-like-the-Sky it was unfamiliar. The heart of the Indian seemed also strange to you, but now it is plain."

As the two sat by a little camp-fire in the cool evenings, Quagnant looked solemnly at Conrad. They had now many companions; tall chiefs wrapped in blankets and stalking solemnly, young men heavily armed and thickly painted. The strangers stared at Conrad in amazement, their keen eyes piercing the thick layer of paint with which his cheeks were covered. When Conrad glanced back at them, they looked at his eyes and shook their heads. They talked with Quagnant of the Long House, of distant enemies whom they called the Lenape, and of other matters which Conrad did not understand. It was clearly evident that Conrad's presence startled and shocked them.

Presently Quagnant grew communicative. One evening when he and Conrad camped alone, he told him something of the affairs of the Indians.

"The Five Nations are at peace, but they will not always be at peace. Many important things are coming to pass, Conrad."

It was in the middle of a bright May morning that Quagnant and his companion reached the end of their journey. The trail led over the last stream, through the last wood and thence to a great hill, upon whose side lay a large Indian village. Here it was that the hundreds of small human streams had converged; here the savages were gathered, it seemed to Conrad, in an innumerable host. At sight of them, his heart throbbed and his skin pricked with fright. Quagnant's face was hideous, and here Quagnant was repeated hundreds of times. Quagnant's great body, crowned with its bristling eagle feathers, was a bit terrifying even to Conrad, and here was Quagnant's fierce strength multiplied by a great army. There were Indians wrapped in blankets, Indians without covering, Indians with hideous nose-rings, and here and there shamans or medicine men with masks of animals, as though the very beasts of the forest had come to join the council.

When strength returned to Conrad's frightened heart, he breathed a frantic prayer to be allowed to escape. For such a scene as this no experience of his life had prepared him. But he dared not show a sign of fear; he must walk on behind Quagnant, up the street of the village between the gigantic creatures and before the black, beady, piercing eyes. As Quagnant approached, he was hailed with many a loud "Ho, Ho." The sound which followed him was different,--a low, disapproving murmur.

Straight up the great hill led the feet of Quagnant; close to him followed Conrad. At the summit of the hill the forest trees had been cut in a wide circle and the ground had been beaten like a hard floor. About the rim of the circle were placed tree-stumps and logs; in the middle burned a fire, round which crouched shamans, more hideous than the warriors. Beside them lay their drums of tightly stretched skin and their rattles of turtle shell or gourd. They sat motionless, their eyes upon the fire.

Quagnant bade Conrad sit down at the edge of the woods, and himself sat beside him. One by one Indians came to speak to him, to Conrad a consoling sign of his importance. Longest of all he spoke with an Oneida chief named Shikellamy. What they said Conrad could not hear, but he could see that Shikellamy looked upon him kindly.

"He has a great heart and a wise mind," said Quagnant as the chief went away. "In council he makes our way clear."

At noon the shamans beat their drums and shook their rattles, and at once, breaking off conversation with one another or with the squaws of the village, the Indians approached the council fire. Certain ones, Quagnant and Shikellamy among them, took seats together on the tree-stumps; the others sat on logs or on the ground. Outside the circle stood scores of young men. Presently the shamans ceased to beat their drums and shake their rattles and crouched again about the fire.

Now followed a period of complete silence. The chiefs did not move; the young warriors seemed scarcely to breathe; even from the village came no sound of speech and no cry of child.

Shikellamy was the first to rise. He spoke in a deep voice and was listened to with breathless attention.

"Brothers of the Long House, it is now many years since the great tree was planted under whose young roots we buried our hatchets. Many moons have risen and waned since we wove our wampum into one belt. Many feasts have been eaten since the undying flame of our council fire was lighted, and since Mohawk, Seneca, Onondaga, Oneida, and Cayuga became brothers. The great tree will continue to grow, the sun and moon to rise and the council fire to send out into the forest its clear light. Our hatchets, buried in the ground, will rust before they are dug up.

"We are now at peace with all men, and strangers seek our favor. Our enemies fear us and we fear no one.

"But, brothers of the Long House, there are matters to be considered. Claims have been laid against us. Our young men, in the heat of anger and inflamed by drink, have done here and there a little injury. The tears of those whom they injured must be wiped away with presents. Each wrong must be considered and we must make recompense without grudging.

"These matters are, however, small. Our brother Onotio has something to say to us. Our brother Onas has also something to say to us. Between Onotio on the one side and Onas on the other, there is undying hatred, whose cause is shut off from our eyes. We cannot remain friends both to Onotio and to Onas, who draw nearer and nearer to one another through the forests. Soon the two black clouds will meet, and the grass on the warpath will be trodden down.

"It is for the consideration of these matters that the council is assembled."

When Shikellamy had finished a loud uproar was made by the medicine men. They rose and faced the east, then prostrated themselves again and again. The Great Spirit was being invoked.

Now with astonishing order the various businesses of which Shikellamy had spoken were presented to the council and settled. The young Indians who had quarreled with their neighbors were admonished and fined. Young Eagle was to send five deerskins to dry the tears of the warrior whose son he had injured; Short Arm was to send three blankets to the widow of the man whom he had killed. Against these decisions there was no protest. The code which the young men had disobeyed was clearly understood and its penalties accepted without argument.

When the relations of the allied nations to the French and English came to be spoken of, there was a change in the spirit of the meeting. Now all whispering ceased; every one sat motionless, listening with knitted brows and bright, eager eyes. The council was informed minutely of the affairs of the English colonies to the east and the French settlements to the west. Conrad listened as eagerly as the rest, his terror lost in amazement.

"I am a swift runner," said Short Arm. "I went in three days to Harris's Ferry. The children of Brother Onas are creeping, creeping to the west and to the north. They are coming into the Long House. They are grazing their cattle where our deer have grazed. They are our enemies."

"The pale-faces are in Schoharie," said a dark-faced, hideously painted old chief. As he spoke he pointed at Conrad. "Not only are they given lands, but they are taken into our wigwams. They are our enemies."

From some one came a sneering laugh. Now Conrad was sure of what would be his fate. Then, on the opposite side of the council fire, a tall figure rose. Conrad's lips parted; he was about to cry out; then he held his lips closely shut with his hand.

"It is the King of Rivers! It is the King of Rivers!"

"This talk about the children of Onas is nonsense. The children of Onotio are more hateful. They come into the Long House from the north. They think nothing of their promises. They have allied themselves with our enemies; they are our enemies. There are no two words about them."

Now Quagnant rose, and standing with folded arms looked about until he had met every piercing eye. Last of all he sought the wide blue ones at the edge of the forest. Like the other Indians, Quagnant spoke eloquently.

"Brothers, we are of the extended lodge. The Long House is no mere hut like the dwelling of the Catawbas. We have made our enemies to flutter like frightened young birds. At the Catawbas and the Lenape we laugh.

"Now strangers seek to live with us in the Long House,--a great people, pale of face, with new customs and long guns. Some are our friends, some are our enemies. They have brought us good things and bad things. With the guns they have brought we have become powerful, but with the fire-water they have brought we have become mad.

"We cannot tell which among these pale-faces are our friends. Their words are not ours and their faces are not ours. They give little in exchange for much. Our furs are to them no more valuable than a few beads, our hunting-grounds no more than a few hatchets."

"It is a good day's journey from the Susquehanna to the Black Mountain," cried a voice. "This they have taken for a piece of bright cloth and a glass in which to see one's face!"

"Their traders lie to us!" cried another.

The hideously painted old chief rose.

"Year by year their ships come. They overrun our land, given by the Great Spirit. They enter at the front of the Long House to shove us out at the back; at the back, to push us out at the front. I counsel death to all!"

A great trembling seized upon Conrad. Then he saw that Quagnant still stood, motionless, waiting to continue his speech. Quagnant would not forget the icy bank and the deep pool!

"Brothers," said Quagnant, "let us be orderly in council, not like chattering birds. The words of Quagnant were not finished."

At once silence was restored.

"The various brothers have spoken," went on Quagnant. "Many have spoken without thought. They desire war, without reflecting that the pale-face has long guns also, without reflecting that ships will bring new pale-faces. There is a pale-face to whom I have put many questions; he tells me that they are across the sea like the leaves of the forest. To talk of making war upon all is child's talk.

"What we should do, brothers of the Long House, is to enter into understanding with the pale-face, so that we may say, 'To this river the land is yours, beyond is ours.' Then our mind will be clear to them, then messengers can go to and fro and--"

"They will not listen!" cried the old warrior. "They have laughed our messengers in the face."

Quagnant waited again until the old warrior had been frowned at by half the assemblage. Quagnant approached now the carefully planned climax of his address.

"The pale-faces will not listen to us, it is true. They do not understand us. But they will listen to another pale-face. I have had in my wigwam a young pale-face. I have watched his behavior. He has done things which will move the hearts of the brothers of the Long House when I tell them. I will tell them at length. We have made of him an Indian. He speaks our words. He--"

Now the fierce old warrior would not be stayed. He sprang to his feet, hatchet in hand.

"He may well speak our words when he sits at our councils! Such a thing has never been heard of in the Long House. Let him go away and go quickly."

Shikellamy crossed the open space toward Quagnant.

"Let the young braves take him away," said he.

At once Conrad found himself surrounded. Down the hillside he was led and to the far end of a long meadow through which flowed a stream.

There, when the curiosity of the young Indians about what was going on in the council could be no longer resisted, he was left alone. He could hear on the rising wind the sound of many voices and now a single voice raised in impassioned speech. About him the shades of the spring night were falling and a cold breath from the water chilled him through. Hungry and tired, he sat with his hands clasped round his knees and his cheek bent upon them. The forest seemed to press upon him. A more terrible oppression came from the thought of the savage creatures on the hillside, gathered from the wilderness, debating now whether to deal with the whites in peace or to exterminate them with knife and flame.

He thought of his father's dreams of a great country where there should be liberty and peace. With honesty and at the same time with firmness must these children of the wilderness be met or dreams and their dreamers would perish in a night.

Presently a dark form stole toward him across the meadow. He heard a strange singing unlike the voice of man or animal. He saw strange forms approach; with faces masked and bodies wrapped in skins of deer and panther and bear. He moved to the nearest tree and stood with his back against it. He thought now no more of his father's dreams, or of God's purpose of which his father talked, but prayed in his pious German way that he might meet his death bravely.

He found himself taken by the hand and led up the hill, the strange forms following after. Through the Indian village where the women stared from firelit doorways, and where over great fires meat was cooking, to the center of the council he was taken, and there he was placed alone beside the council fire. About sat the chiefs, behind them in the shadowy circle the young men. Conrad stood still, his eyes seeking Quagnant. If death should come, he hoped its messenger would be a swift knife. The medicine men were behind him; it would be by their hands that the blow would be struck.

Shikellamy was the first to speak. Upon his magnificent body the firelight danced. His immobile face told nothing of his heart, but it seemed to Conrad that his voice was kind.

"We have listened to the story of our brother Quagnant," said he. "We believe that you are honest and true. We believe that you speak our words. In order that we may bind ourselves to you and you to us"--now Conrad's heart stood still--"in order that we may bind ourselves to you and you to us, we make you a member of the Five Nations. We give you our heart and you give us your heart. He who is our friend is your friend. He who is our enemy is your enemy. We invite you to the extended lodge, we bid you come to our feasts. We will give you in token deerskins to make you clothes and shoes."

Now there was a long pause. The rising wind moaned in the pine trees, the fire leaped. Shikellamy crossed to the council fire and held out his great hand.

"We give you also in token a new name. 'Eyes-like-the-Sky' you are to the children, but among men you are, 'He-holds-our-fate.'"

Now the King of Rivers came forward. A true Indian, he gave no sign that he recollected the camp of Blackheath and the strange encounter which reached now its stranger consummation.

"We are to see dark sights," said he. "I see wars, with Indians creeping upon pale-faces and pale-faces upon Indians. I hear cries to the Great Spirit. See that you, who are now our Tongue, are true to us. Then the English will conquer the French and the land will have peace. Between the Indian and the English is a bond. You are that bond."

Now Shikellamy spoke again.

"You will have a great name while you live, and after you die your Indian brothers will visit the place where you lie. Your children will say with pride, 'I am of the great He-holds-our-fate, his blood is mine, I have his brave heart.' Will you be true to your brothers?"

"I will be true to my brothers."

Then, at the side of a beckoning Quagnant, Conrad sat down.

"You have done well," said Quagnant. "Now the feast begins."

Conrad made no answer. He saw the Long House, enormous, mysterious; he saw the little fringe of white faces between it and the sea. He saw the hopes and fears of the dwellers in the Long House and the hopes and fears of the strangers. Both were in his own heart.

* * * * *

In June, John Conrad's eager, anxious eyes were satisfied. He still walked each evening into the forest. There on a fallen tree he sat and looked toward the west. One clear evening, he saw coming toward him an erect, alert young Indian and sprang up to make the same eager inquiry with which he greeted all Indians. Then he stood still. The Indian was clad in doeskin, his hair was long, his feet were moccasined--but his eyes were blue!

"My son!" cried John Conrad.

Hand in hand the two sat down on the fallen tree.

"How are my brothers and sisters?" asked Conrad.

"I have heard no ill news of them. Sabina is married, and Barbara has taken her place with a kind mistress in Schenectady. Of all my dear children you are left me, Conrad. What has befallen you?"

Conrad talked steadily and quietly. He was different; his eyes were steady, his figure erect, his voice deep. He told of the strange life, of the harsh training, of the bitter suffering from hunger and cold.

When he described the council, John Conrad shivered.

"A thousand times I wished I had not let you go!" Then in the gathering dusk his eyes sought his son's face. "What are you going to do now, Conrad?"

Conrad turned and smiled into the anxious eyes.

"I am going to help you and I am going to teach the children their letters. Father,"--Conrad looked back into the darkening woods,--"the life among the Indians seems already like a dream; but there they are waiting, a fearful menace to us all. Suppose that I should some day be the one to keep the peace! Perhaps God has saved me for that through much danger and perversity."

John Conrad breathed a long sigh. He did not look into the future, but into the past.

"Your mother and I could not give our children riches and honor," said he slowly. "We tried to give them faith in God and willingness to do their simple duty. If you have learned those lessons from us or in the forest among the Indians, you are at last a man. Your mother--"

But John Conrad could not finish, needed not to finish. The hand within his tightened and an arm was thrown across his bent shoulders. Together the two sat silently, as they had stood long ago in Gross Anspach in the moonlight by the little church. Their thoughts traveled together from sister to sister and brother to brother, and finally back once more across the sea. Then, at last, John Conrad spoke.

"It has been a long journey and a weary one," said he, "but my children will have a better chance than I in the world. There may be other journeys before me, but tonight my heart is at rest."

THE END

The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
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JUST DAVID

By Eleanor H. Porter

"Just David" is one of those books that bear a message of courage and inspiration straight to the heart of every reader. If you want to make a lovable, life-long friend, get and read this story of the boy who brought happiness to a whole village, and who will bring happiness to you.

"'Just David' will be read with gladness and gratitude by men and women who need inspiration."--_Continent._

"'Just David' is delightful in every way; the best story in many respects that Mrs. Porter has written."--_Zion's Herald._

Illustrated in tint. $1.25 _net_.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

THE SONG OF THE LARK

By Willa Sibert Cather
_Author of "O Pioneers!" and "Alexander's Bridge."_

The story of a prima donna's life from childhood on a Western ranch to international fame.

"An uncommonly interesting novel. 'The Song of the Lark' is a book to read and not to 'skip.' Its gripping power lies in the reaction of Thea Kronborg's temperament upon the wise and courageous mother and also upon the generous men who made her development possible.... Miss Cather has created a flesh and blood woman."--_Boston Transcript._

"A story of something better than suggestiveness and charm--a thing finished, sound and noble."--_The Nation._

"Many books have been written of which the chief character has been a singer; there is something about a career behind the footlights that is strangely alluring. None, however, has been more skillfully and sympathetically written than 'The Song of the Lark.'"--_Louisville Courier Journal._

"It has the artistic and literary merit of her earlier book, 'O Pioneers!' but it is an immeasurably bigger and richer story."--_New York Globe._

$1.40 _net_.

HOUGHTON BOSTON
MIFFLIN AND
COMPANY NEW YORK

"K"

By Mary Roberts Rinehart

_Author of "The Street of Seven Stars," etc._

"A brilliant story of hospital wards and work, of nurses, of surgeons, of discouragements, of successes, of poverty, of wealth, of love--in short, of humanity."--_Cleveland Town Topics._

"This absorbing tale of mystery, love, and ambition is the climax of Mrs. Rinehart's art."--_Kansas City Star._

"No fiction reader can afford to omit the pleasure of knowing 'K.'"--_Cleveland Plain Dealer._

"Intensely readable from the first page to the last."--_New York Tribune._

"Mrs. Rinehart has never written a more engrossing story."--_Literary Digest._

Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. $1.35 _net_.

HOUGHTON BOSTON
MIFFLIN AND
COMPANY NEW YORK

THE VALLEY ROAD

By Mary Hallock Foote

"A fine portrayal of the progress of a family with good old traditions through more than two decades.... This work deserves praise for its fine workmanship."--_Review of Reviews._

"One of the choice novels of the year.... A symmetrical, beautiful story, with passages that fire imagination, that smite with pity, that quicken with the stress of life's great moments. Surrounding it all, and one with it, is the colorful Californian atmosphere."--_Milwaukee Free Press._

"In 'The Valley Road' readers who have learned to watch for Mrs. Foote's books will find all her best characteristics revealed.... All her people are delightfully real."--_Louisville Courier Journal._

"The vivid character drawing, the insight into people's hearts that is shown and the pictures of their lives combine to make a fine and interesting portrayal of American life.... The story is refreshing."--_Indianapolis Star._

"A healthy, whole-souled book, fresh and free, like her own dear California."--_St. Louis Globe Democrat._

$1.35 _net_.

HOUGHTON BOSTON
MIFFLIN AND
COMPANY NEW YORK

DAVID PENSTEPHEN

By Richard Pryce
_Author of "Christopher," etc., etc._

"A novel of extraordinary insight into the soul of a woman and the heart of a child.... Novelists like Mr. Pryce, with his sympathetic comprehension of the mental processes in both women and children, as well as in men, are all too rare. 'David Penstephen' is an unusual story told in an unusual manner."--_Boston Transcript._

"'David Penstephen' is as searching a study of the influence of environment upon character as one can find--a story that grows ever more intensely interesting as it proceeds. One of the notable novels of the year."--_New York Tribune._

"Far ahead of anything Mr. Pryce has yet done--even 'Christopher.'"--_New York Times._

$1.35 _net_.

HOUGHTON BOSTON
MIFFLIN AND
COMPANY NEW YORK

PENELOPE'S POSTSCRIPTS

By Kate Douglas Wiggin
_Author of "Rebecca," "The Birds' Christmas Carol," etc._

The experiences of the ever-fascinating Penelope in Vienna, Switzerland, Wales, Devon, and at home.

"In their delightfully humorous way, with their capital touches of character-drawing, Penelope's travel books will enchant readers to-day as much as they delighted those who read them more than a decade ago."--_New York Tribune._

"In its lightness of touch, its gayety and humor, it reveals the qualities that have endeared Mrs. Wiggin's work to such a host of readers."--_New York World._

"Age cannot destroy, nor familiarity lessen, Penelope's power to charm. In these, her 'postscripts,' that power is as potent as ever."--_Philadelphia Press._

"All the charm of the author's previous books is present in this one."--_New Orleans Times-Picayune._

With frontispiece. $1.00 _net_.

HOUGHTON BOSTON
MIFFLIN AND
COMPANY NEW YORK

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, all other spelling, punctuation and accents are as in he original.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.