Into our horizon, too, move terrible shapes--not shadowy or lurid, but living, breathing figures, who turn their eyes on us and hold out their butcher hands: Walter Butler, with his awful smile; Sir John Johnson, heavy and pallid--pallid, perhaps, with the memory of his broken parole; Barry St. Leger, the drunken dealer in scalps; Guy Johnson, organizer of wholesale murder; Brant, called Thayendanegea, brave, terrible, faithful, but--a Mohawk; and that frightful she-devil, Catrine Montour, in whose hot veins seethed savage blood and the blood of a governor of Canada, who smote us, hip and thigh, until the brawling brooks of Tryon ran blood! No, there is no illusion for us; no splendid armies, banner--laden, passing through unbroken triumphs across the sunset's glory; no winged victory, with smooth brow laurelled to teach us to forget the holocaust. Neither can we veil our history, nor soften our legends. Romance alone can justify a theme inspired by truth; for Romance is more vital than history, which, after all, is but the fleshless skeleton of Romance. R.W.C. BROADALBIN, May 26, 1902. CONTENTS I. THE ROAD TO VARICKS'. II. IN THE HALLWAY. III. COUSINS. IV. SIR LUPUS. V. A NIGHT AT THE PATROON'S. VI. DAWN. VII. AFTERMATH. VIII. RIDING THE BOUNDS. IX. HIDDEN FIRE. X. TWO LESSONS. XI. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. XII. THE GHOST-RING. XIII. THE MAID-AT-ARMS. XIV. ON DUTY. XV. THE FALSE-FACES. XVI. ON SCOUT. XVII. THE FLAG. XVIII. ORISKANY. XIX. THE HOME TRAIL. XX. COCK-CROW. XXI. THE CRISIS. XXII. THE END OF THE BEGINNING. ILLUSTRATIONS "I SAT DOWN HEAVILY IN HOMESICK SOLITUDE". "YOU'RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I'M THE FATTEST LIAR SOUTH OF MONTREAL!". "SHE SUFFERED US TO SALUTE HER HAND". "NOW LOOSE ME--FOR THE FOREST ENDS!". "THIS IS THE END, O YOU WISE MEN AND SACHEMS!". "JACK MOUNT LOOMED A COLOSSAL FIGURE IN HIS BEADED BUCKSKINS". "INSTANTLY MOUNT TRIPPED THE MAN". "A STRANGE SHYNESS SEEMED TO HOLD US APART". THE MAID-AT-ARMS I THE ROAD TO VARICKS' We drew bridle at the cross-roads; he stretched his legs in his stirrups, raised his arms, yawned, and dropped his huge hands upon either thigh with a resounding slap. "Well, good-bye," he said, gravely, but made no movement to leave me. "Do we part here?" I asked, sorry to quit my chance acquaintance of the Johnstown highway. He nodded, yawned again, and removed his round cap of silver-fox fur to scratch his curly head. "We certainly do part at these cross-roads, if you are bound for Varicks'," he said. I waited a moment, then thanked him for the pleasant entertainment his company had afforded me, and wished him a safe journey. "A safe journey?" he repeated, carelessly. "Oh yes, of course; safe journeys are rare enough in these parts. I'm obliged to you for the thought. You are very civil, sir. Good-bye." Yet neither he nor I gathered bridle to wheel our horses, but sat there in mid-road, looking at each other.