The boy knew nothing of the politics of Europe, neither could he enter into his father's dream of empire. He hated the French merely because they were enemies, and because they had betrayed the Iroquois. To go out and fight against them was more exciting, because more dangerous, than to engage with the beasts of the forest; but the struggle between the Powers of Europe for the ownership of North America had injected no venom into his soul. "Shall I not live here always?" he asked. "Am I not to choose a maid from the Cayugas, and settle upon the isles beside you, my father?" "Talk not of the future, son. Life is to-day, not hereafter. That lies in the hand of God to give or to withhold. You shall return when I am gone--return, did I say? You shall go to England with letters to a notary in Maidstone, and he shall see that you come into your own. You are dark of face, but English in heart, my Richard." The boy lifted his head with a sudden sharp movement. "Perchance that day shall never come." The hound also lifted his head, and as his eyes sought the haunt of shadows his jaw dropped in a wild howl. "Spirits sweep across my burying-place," whispered the youth. The hound lowered his head and howled again. "Frenchmen," muttered the boy. The brute slouched a few feet, broke into a trot, and disappeared. "He goes in the direction of New Windsor," said the knight. "Hast heard any sound in the forest?" "There is no stir," replied the boy, holding his well-trained ear to the ground. "The smoke from our fire carries. Let us go aside into the shadow of the bush and watch." They retreated, flashing glances to right and left. The snap of a twig, the very crushing of pine needles, sufficed to disturb that calm. There was no premonitory shiver of the moon-rays, no suggestion of any human presence upon the chilled air. Their feet sank audibly into the white moss. Their breath made the semblance of a whisper between father and son, the lion ready, the cub longing. The rim of the deep shadow ran behind as they turned to face the clearing they had abandoned. "The wind blows from New Windsor," said the knight. "The wind off Couchicing." "If Blood takes hold of a man he shall die," went on the boy. "He will hold at the back of the neck, and there hang until his fangs meet. Ha! Didst hear that?" A branch had broken with a dry report. The trees moaned, and a few distended cones struck the ground like spent bullets. "The breeze freshens. Methinks I hear the waves breaking upon the beach." A raven passed before the moon, knelling violently. "He smells carrion," whispered the boy. "Already he smells blood upon my sword." "Peace, boy," said his father; adding, compassionately, "He is but a child."