"A-ha-ha, good," the Indian grunted. "Dem all slashers in beeg canoe,
eh?" and he motioned toward the harbour.

"No, no; they are King George's people. They were driven out of their
own homes, and have come here. There are thousands of them, so I
learned."

"All stay here?"

"Some will, but many will go up river, and settle on the land."

"Ugh! too many white men dere now. Chase Injun, kill moose, ketch
feesh. Injun all starve."

"Don't you worry about that," Dane replied. "These are all King
George's people, so they will treat the Indians right."

"Mebbe so," and Pete shook his head in a somewhat doubtful manner. "Me
see bimeby."

At length Dane rose to his feet, and looked over toward the harbour.
The sun had disappeared beyond the far distant hills, and dusk was
stealing up over the land. A stiff breeze was drifting in from the
Bay, chilly and damp. Dane thought of the Loyalists in their wretched
shacks, and of the ones who had no shelter at all. He longed to know
how they were making out, and especially her who was so much in his
mind.

"You stay here, Pete, and keep guard," he ordered. "I'm going to see
how King George's people are making out."