Elizabeth touched Chingachgook's hand. "Perhaps this child is not a son," she said, and was surprised to see him almost laugh at her.

"When I fly at night, I have seen my great—grandson in your arms," he said, as if this were proof positive. Which, Elizabeth realized, it was, for him.

Robbie whistled to Treenie, who came out of her sleeping place under the porch with her tail in a great sweep. "Come, lass, we're awa' hame."

At last he turned to Elizabeth. "Walk wi' me a while."

"Go along," Nathaniel said, taking the water bucket from her. "But not too far, mind."

"I'll send her back straightawa'," Robbie promised.

When they had walked a few minutes in silence, he cleared his throat.

"Weel, lassie." The soft wattles of flesh on his neck were flushed bright with color. Elizabeth rubbed the heel of her hand over Treenie's bony skull and waited, wondering what he had on his mind that he could not say in front of the men.

"Ye ken I've spent some time in the village wi' Axel," he began. "For he's a guid man and one I trust. A wee bit free wi’ the ale betimes, but he's no got a crook it bone in his body, and a mind sac sharp as yer own. And there's nane sac guid as his dauchter. Anna is a fine woman.

"Yes," Elizabeth said slowly. "I think quite a lot of Axel and of Anna, as well." When they had gone to the village for church services, Anna was the only one—besides Curiosity, and some of the children—to show Elizabeth a really warm welcome.

"They are mair than guid friends, ye ken. They are the kind ye can count on when others are bluidy—minded."

They had come to the small stand of white birch which marked the turning of the path down toward the strawberry fields, and Robbie paused.

"Wha' I mean tae say is this: if there's trouble, then get ye tae Axel, for it's gey certain he wilma desert ye in yer time o' need."

"Robbie, you frighten me," said Elizabeth. "With Nathaniel and Hawkeye and Runs-from-Bears, even Chingachgook, as old as he is—why would I have need of Axel's help?"

"I hae no' a door that yer menfolk can stan' for ye; dinna mistake me. But there's rough talk in the toon, lass, and I fear it will come tae a bad end. Truth be told, 'gin I could help it, I wa dna leave at a'. But I made a promise tae an auld friend that I mun keep."

Elizabeth considered at length. "You know more than you are telling me," she concluded.

He nodded reluctantly, watching her from the corner of his eye. "Yestere'en I paid a ca' on yer faither

She shot him a surprised look. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, unease born of distrust.

On her second day home, Elizabeth had gone with Nathaniel to call on her father and brother, but a very grim—faced Curiosity had told her that the judge and Julian had just left for Albany, on business they would not name.

She had never seen Curiosity so unsure of herself. Just yesterday afternoon, Runs-from-Bears had come in from his scouting to report that the two had returned home.

"Why did you not tell me you were going, Robbie?"

"Aye, weel. I thoucht it wad be better tae talk tae the judge man tae man, ye ken. And I didna tell ye straight after, for the twa o' them put me sair oot o' sorts.

"My father is not resigned," she said, an acknowledgment rather than a question.

"Tae say the verra least," Robbie agreed. "Lass, let me speak plain. I wa dna fear yer faither anger 'gin it werena for yer brother. Taegither they will stop at naethin' tae see their will done."

"I must go see him."

"Aye, that is a start. P'rhaps the idea o' ye wi' hairn will do some guid."

Self—consciously, Elizabeth put a hand to her waist. She doubted her father would see her condition without being told; it was a thought she did not enjoy.

"Robbie," she said slowly. "Why tell me this and not Nathaniel?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Lass, 'gin I had a son, I could dna love him mair than Nathaniel, do ye ken the truth o' that?"

Elizabeth nodded slowly.

"He's a rare mannie, is Nathaniel. Gey braw, and canty. But he's got a bad habit o' underestimatin' men wha' are weaker than he is. He hasna lamed that weak men are tae be feared."

She said, "You think he should fear my father?"

Robbie stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Nathaniel thinks the judge a foolish auld man, no' worth much troublin' ower. But worse, he's disremembered yer brother, and yer brother is nae man's fool."

A quick memory came to Elizabeth of Julian as a four—year—old, during one of the judge's rare visits to England. She could almost feel the short fingers, sticky with marmalade, wound stubbornly in her skirts; he had torn the fabric before he could be dragged away to greet the stranger who was his father. That evening Julian had disappeared, and stayed away for two whole days, secluded in the depths of the kitchen cabinet where he could hear the news of the house and still be warm and have enough to eat when all had gone to their beds. Only the cook's need of a rarely used jelly mold had uncovered him. When asked what he had been about, he had looked surprised that the adults could not see the sense of his plan. "I wished to make you unhappy," he had said. "Not myself."

"Julian is not stupid," she agreed. "And he is incredibly stubborn." She sighed. "Robbie, tell me truly what you think."