2
While learning the ways of the wilderness from Conawago, Duncan had also learned to read the tracks of the old man’s complex silences. Survivor of a nearly extinct tribe, educated in the best Jesuit schools, visitor to the courts of Paris and London, the aged Nipmuc often stilled his tongue, but never his eyes. Seldom had Duncan seen such intense emotion on his lined countenance. His deep, intelligent eyes were lanced with anguish, but an urgent fear also flickered in them. He responded to Duncan’s questions with a dismissive gesture and a quickened pace, then slowed for a moment as he looked at his hands, as if just noticing the blood on them.
Duncan knew the old stone-walled warehouse next to Hancock Wharf, where Conawago led him, but he was not familiar with the small door at the no
