The first salutation of the captain was sharp and to the point, “Where is Wampset? It is long since the chief was known to linger on the war-trail.” “Wampset has not lingered. But, he can not come to the aid of his young friend. The Hawk hovers with outspread wings above his tree-top. Shall not the Eagle guard his own nest first?” “What mean you?” “Sassacus has sent Mennewan upon the war-trail. A dog who had eaten bread in our lodges told the Pequods that the Eagle rested his tired wings upon the banks of the great river. The Pequods are very mad for the scalp of Wampset, and his band are known in every lodge in the nation. They are very brave.” “How do you know this?” “The band had painted their faces for war and set forth. Near the river-side they met the Fox. He is the son of Miantonomah, sachem of the Narragansetts. The Fox is very cunning, and he loves Wampset. He has sworn to have the scalp of Sassacus. He told us that he had been in the Pequod lodges, and they were on the way. They did not know that he was with them. None are so cunning as the Fox.” “What did he do then?” “What could he do? Should he leave his little ones a prey to the tomahawks of the Pequods?” This was unanswerable, and Van Zandt could only mutter curses on the unlucky fate which had worked against him. If he had only known the truth, _fate_ would not have had the curses on that day. But, curses would do no good. Wampset was by this time half way back to his camp, and the Fox, who had done his work well, was back in Windsor, reporting to his employer the success of the stratagem. As the reader has no doubt surmised by this time, the coming of the Pequods was a coinage of the brain of Boston, who hoped by this to send the Indians back to their camp. The ruse succeeded to a charm, and deprived the Dutch of their allies. There was nothing for it but to take the place without help, and Carl, in company with Captain Van Zandt, set out to reconnoiter the position. It was now growing dark, and they advanced with caution. All about the stockade was still. The silence, in fact, was so profound as to be suspicious. Van Zandt, a practiced Indian-fighter, had his suspicions of such quiescence. He advanced carefully. There was only one light in the stockade. That was a fire in the center, around which sat four or five of the garrison. They were all stalwart men, for Captain Holmes brought no others into the wilderness. The spy could see through the chinks that their arms lay beside them, and ready to take up at a moment’s notice.