"Brother," said she, "this Montagnais hunter has given an account that the Maquas have prepared an ambuscade, knowing we are on the Great Trail." I said, coolly: "What reason does the Saguenay give for returning to us with such a tale?" "He says," she replied, "that we only, of all Iroquois or white men he has ever encountered, have treated him like a man and not as an unclean beast. "He says that my white brother has told him he is a man, and that if this is true he will act as real men act. "He says he desires to be painted upon the breast with a little red foot, and wishes to go into battle with us. And," she added naïvely, "to an Oneida this seems very strange that a Saguenay can be a real man!" "Paint him," said I, smiling at the Saguenay. But no Oneida would touch him. So, while he stripped to the clout and began to oil himself from the flask of gun-oil I offered, I got from him, through Thiohero, all he had noticed of the ambuscade prepared for us, and into which he himself had run headlong in his flight from the stones and insults of the Mohawks at the Big Eddy. While he was thus oiling himself, Luysnes shaved his head with his hunting blade, leaving a lock to be braided. Then, very quickly, I took blue paint from Thiohero and made on the fellow's chest a hawk. And, with red paint, under this I made a little red foot, then painted his fierce, thin features as the girl directed, moving a dainty finger hither and thither but never touching the Saguenay. To me she said disdainfully, in English: "My brother John, this is a wild wolf you take hunting with you, and not a hound. The Saguenays are real wolves and not to be tamed by white men or Iroquois. And like a lone wolf he will run away in battle. You shall see, brother John." "I hope not, little sister." "You shall see," she repeated, her pretty lip curling as Luysnes began to braid the man's scalp-lock. "You think him a warrior, now, because he is oiled and wears war paint and lock. But I tell you he is only a wild Montagnais hunter. Warriors are not made with a word." "Sometimes men are," said I pleasantly. The girl came closer to me, looked up into my face with unfeigned curiosity. "What manner of white man are you, John?" she asked. "For you speak like a preacher, yet you wear no skirt and cross, as do the priests of the Praying Indians." "Little sister," said I, taking both her hands, "I am only a young man going into battle for the first time; and I have yet to fire my first shot in anger. If my white and red brothers--and if you, little sister--do full duty this day, then we shall be happy, living or dead. For only those who do their best can look the Holder of Heaven in the face." She gave me a strange glance; our hands parted. I gave the Canada-sparrow call in the minor key--as often the bird whistles--and, at the signal, all my scouts came creeping in.