“Before that can be done, Morton may be dead. If you get the Indian what care you for else? The Indian who killed Slocum passes into your hands the moment Morton is given liberty.” “This is altogether irregular,” remarked an officer, “General Hampton cannot deal with an irresponsible redskin, who, for all he knows, has come here on some scheme of deviltry. See here, was it you that murdered Slocum?” “I never murdered any man,” answered Hemlock proudly, “but I have killed many in war. Had you the Indian who slew him, what would you do to him?” “Well, I guess, if the General let us have our way, we would hand him to the men of Slocum’s old regiment and they’d make him wish he had never been born.” “The Indian might have had good cause for dealing with Slocum as he did?” “No, you red devil, he could have no cause. He carved him up out of pure deviltry.” “You are tired, General,” said Hemlock, with a courteous wave of the hand, “and while you rest, will you listen to me, for I have heard that Indian’s story? In the Mohawk valley lived an English family when you Americans rose against King George. A neighbor, who had come from Massachusetts, envied their farm, and, on the Englishman refusing to forswear his allegiance, had it confiscated and took possession. The Englishman had to fly and went through the woods, many days’ journey to Canada, guided by a band of loyal Oneidas. When they reached Canada, a young warrior of that band stayed with them and helped them to find food in the wilderness until crops grew. That Indian gave up his tribe, and lived with them and a daughter came to love him, and they were married and were happy many years, until the mist rose from the lake and she sickened and died. The Indian so loved her that he would have killed himself to follow her to the spirit land, had she not left a daughter, who was his joy and life. When she grew up, the Indian said, She shall be the equal of the best, and he took her to Albany to be taught all ladies learn. A young man saw her, met her, learned of the Indian blood in her veins, and doomed her as his spoil. He was aided by a companion in deceiving her by a false marriage, she lived with him for a while, was cast off, and her deceiver married the governor’s daughter. The Indian had gone on a far journey; he went to seek for furs in the West to get money for his daughter. In two years he came to Montreal with many canoe-loads, he sold them, he went to Albany, and found his child dying of a broken heart. He took her away with him, he nursed her by the Ottawa--he buried her there. He went back to Albany, and was told the law could not punish Slocum or his friend, who had gone away. Then he sought Slocum and twenty times he could have killed him, but he would not. In his heart he said, Slocum must die not by the knife or bullet, but by torture, and the chance came not until a moon ago, when he met Slocum face to face in the Chateaugay woods about to stab Morton.