The sun is high, and Isaac and the oxen must have the skins well-nigh to Williamsburgh.

Up with you!" Hugon rose to his feet, slid his knife into its sheath, and announced in good enough English that he was ready.

He had youth, the slender, hardy, perfectly moulded figure of the Indian, a coloring and a countenance that were not of the white and not of the brown.

When he went a-trading up the river, past the thickly settled country, past the falls, past the French town which his Huguenot father had helped to build, into the deep woods and to the Indian village whence had strayed his mother, he wore the clothing that became the woods,--beaded moccasins, fringed leggings, hunting-shirt of deerskin, cap of fur,--looked his part and played it well.

When he came back to an English country, to wharves and stores, to halls and porches of great houses and parlors of lesser ones, to the streets and ordinaries of Williamsburgh, he pulled on jack boots, shrugged himself into a coat with silver buttons, stuck lace of a so-so quality at neck and wrists, wore a cocked hat and a Blenheim wig, and became a figure alike grotesque and terrible.