"Neither that nor better, Jessica. Nor do you; and I know that very well. With me it's a laugh and a kiss and a laugh; and into my stirrups and off.... And you are young and soft and sweet as new maple-sap in the snow. But if you dream like other little birds, of nesting----" "May a lass not dream in springtime?" "Surely. But let it end so, too." "In dreams." "It is wiser." "There is no wisdom in me, pretty boy in buckskin. And I love thrums better than red-coats and lace." "Love spinning better than either!" "Oh, la! He preaches of wheels and spindles when my mouth aches for a kiss!" "And mine," said I, "--but my legs ache more for my saddle; and I must go." At that moment when I said adieu with my lips, and she did not mean to unlink her arms, came Nick on noiseless tread to twitch my arm. And, "Look," said he, pointing toward the long, low rampart of Maxon Ridge. I turned, my hand still retaining Jessica's: and saw the Iroquois signal-flame mount thin and high, tremble, burn red against the stars, then die there in the darkness. Northward another flame reddened on the hills, then another, fire answering fire. "What the devil is this?" growled Nick. "These are no times for Indians to talk to one another with fire." "Get into your saddle," said I, "and we shall ride by Varick's, for I've a mind to see what will-o'-the-wisps may be a-dancing over the great Vlaie!" So the tall lad took his leave of his little pigeon of Pigeon-Wood, who seemed far from willing to let him loose; and I made my adieux to Jessica, who stood a-pouting; and we mounted and set off at a gallop for Varick's, by way of Summer House Point. I could not be certain, but it seemed to me that there was a light at the Point, which came through the crescents from behind closed shutters; but that was within reason, Sir John being at liberty to keep open the hunting lodge if he chose. As for the Drowned Lands, as far as we could see through the night there was not a spark over that desolate wilderness. The Mohawk fires on the hills, too, had died out. Fish House, if still burning candles, was too far away to see; we galloped through Varick's, past the mill where, from its rocky walls, Frenchman's Creek roared under the stars; then turned west along the Brent-Meester's trail toward Fonda's Bush and home. "Those Iroquois fires trouble me mightily," quoth Nick, pushing his lank horse forward beside my mare. "And me," said I. "Why should they talk with fire on the night Hiakatoo comes to the Hall?" "I do not know," said I. "But when I am home I shall write it in a letter to Albany that this night the Mohawks have talked among themselves with fire, and that a Seneca was present." "And that mealy-mouthed Ensign, Moucher; and Hare and Steve Watts!" "I shall so write it," said I, very seriously.