The robbery was unendurable. And I knew the Indian who had done it. He was the quietest, most stubborn Oneida that ever followed an adopted white man. Why he had taken the book I could not understand. But I was entirely certain that he had taken it out of my hand while I slept. He would not break the padlock and read it, but like a judicious father he would take care of a possibly unwholesome volume himself. I went out and found the bald-headed and well-beloved wretch. He was sitting with his knees to his chin by the evening log fire. "Skenedonk," I said, "I want my book." "Children and books make a woman of you," he responded. "You had enough books at Longmeadow." "I want it at once," I repeated. "It's sorcery," he answered. "It's a letter from Madame de Ferrier, and may tell where she is." His fawn eyes were startled, but he continued to hug his knees. "Skenedonk, I can't quarrel with you. You were my friend before I could remember. When you know I am so bound to you, how can you deal me a deadly hurt?" "White woman sorcery is the worst sorcery. You thought I never saw it. But I did see it. You went after her to Paris. You did not think of being the king. So you had to come back with nothing. That's what woman sorcery does. Now you have power with the tribes. The President sees you are a big man! And she sends a book to you to bewitch you! I knew she sent the book as soon as I saw it." "Do you think she sent Paul?" He made no answer. "Madame de Ferrier does not know I have the book." "You haven't it," said Skenedonk. "But you have." "If she wrote and sent a letter she expected it would be received." "When I said a letter I meant what is called a journal: the writing down of what happens daily. Johnny Appleseed got the book from an Indian. That is how it was sent to me." "If you read it you will want to drop everything else and go to find her." This was the truth, for I was not under military law. "Where is the book?" "Down my back," said Skenedonk. I felt the loose buckskin. "It isn't there." "In my front," said Skenedonk. I ran my hand over his chest, finding nothing but bone and brawn. "There it is," he said, pointing to a curled wisp of board at the edge of the fire. "I burnt it." "Then you've finished me." I turned and left him sitting like an image by the fire. V Before I left Fort Stephenson, I wrote a letter to Count de Chaumont, telling him about Paul's death and asking for news of the De Ferriers. The answer I begged him to send to Sandusky, which the British now despaired of taking. But although Skenedonk made a long journey for it twice during the half year, I got no answer.