Henry and his comrades themselves arrived there toward the close of evening, just as the sun had set, blood red, behind the mountains.

Some report of them had preceded their coming, and as soon as they had eaten they were summoned to the presence of Colonel Zebulon Butler, who commanded the military force in the valley.

Singularly enough, he was a cousin of "Indian" Butler, who led the invading army.
The five, dressed in deerskin hunting shirts, leggins, and moccasins, and everyone carrying a rifle, hatchet, and knife, entered a large low room, dimly lighted by some wicks burning in tallow.

A man of middle years, with a keen New England face, sat at a little table, and several others of varying ages stood near.
The five knew instinctively that the man at the table was Colonel Butler, and they bowed, but they did not show the faintest trace of subservience.

They had caught suspicious glances from some of the officers who stood about the commander, and they stiffened at once.
Colonel Butler looked involuntarily at Henry-everybody always took him, without the telling, for leader of the group.
"We have had report of you," he said in cool noncommittal tones, "and you have been telling of great Indian councils that you have seen in the woods.