The Red Priest also heard it, for he had turned where he stood, his rigid arm still menacing the White Sorceress.
Suddenly, into the firelit circle staggered a British soldier, hatless, dishevelled, his scarlet uniform in rags.
For a moment he stood staring about him, swaying where he stood, then with a hopeless gesture he flung his musket from him and passed a shaking hand across his eyes.
"O Amochol!" cried the Sorceress, pointing a slim and steady finger at the bloody soldier.

"Have I dreamed lies or have I dreamed the truth?
Hearken! The woods are full of people running! Do you hear?
And have I lied to you, O Amochol ?" "From whence do you come ?" cried Amochol, striding toward the soldier.
"From the Chemung.

Except for the dead we all are coming--Butler and Brant and all.

Bring out your corn, Seneca! The army starves." Amochol stared at the soldier, at the executioner still writhing and struggling to loose his hand from the bloody arrow, at the Sorceress who had veiled her face.
"Witch!" he cried, "get you to Yndaia.

If you stir elsewhere you shall burn!" He had meant to say more, I think, but at that moment, from the southern woods men came reeling out into the fire-circle--ghastly, bloody, ragged creatures in shreds of uniforms, green, red, and brown--men and officers of Sir John's regiment, men of Butler's Rangers, British regulars.