were a lie to pronounce his name French-fashion--"John a
Cleeve," "Jean a Clive." And, once more, was not this war?

For the rest and for his own part, it was astonishing how easily, the
central truth being hidden--that the tunic in the _armoire_ was not
his--the deception had run on its own wheels. Why, after all, should
that tunic frighten him? He, John a Cleeve, had not killed its
wearer. He had never buttoned it about him nor slipped an arm into
one of its sleeves. Menehwehna had offered to help him into it and
had shown much astonishment on being refused. John's own soiled
regimentals they had weighted with a stone and sunk in the river, and
he had been lying all but naked, with the accursed garment over his
legs, when the rescue-party found them on the bank.

How many lies had Menehwehna told? John could remember the sound of
two voices, the priest's and the Indian's, questioning and
explaining; but the sound only. As soon as he shut his eyes and
tried to recall the words, the priest's voice faded down the song of
the falls, and only the Indian and himself were left, dropping--
dropping--to the sound, over watery ledges and beneath pendent
boughs. Then, as the walls of the room dissolved and the priest's
figure vanished with them, Menehwehna's voice grew distinct.
At one time it said: "What is done is done. Come with me, and we
will go up through the Great Lakes, beyond Michilimackinac, to the
Beaver Islands which are in the mouth of Lake Michigan. There we
will find the people of my tribe, and when the snow comes and they
separate, you shall go with me to the wintering-grounds and learn to
be a hunter."

In another dream the voice said: "You will not come because you weary
of me and wish to leave me. We have voyaged together, and little by
little my heart has been opened to you; but yours will not open in
return. I would have made you to me all that Muskingon was; but you
would not. When I killed that man, it was for your sake no less than
Muskingon's. I told him so when he died. Of what avail is my
friendship, brother, when you will give me none in exchange? . . ."

In yet a third dream the canoe floated on a mirror, between a forest
and the image of a forest. . . . His eyes followed the silver wake of
a musk-rat swimming from shore to shore, and in his ear Menehwehna
was saying, "Your head is weak yet: when it grows stronger you will
wish to come. Muskingon struck you too hard--so--with t