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later he was doubting his senses. The visitors had disappeared into the sachem’s wigwam and the villagers had  crowded in behind them or clustered about  the doorway, and David was alone in the hot  glare of the sun. Bewilderedly he passed the edge of the throng. From within the lodge came the murmur of a voice. Outside the crowd was talking in low tones. A perceptible atmosphere of excitement had pervaded the village. But David, seeking his own wigwam, gave little thought to that. If the Indian was, indeed, Pikot, why was he there, an emissary of the murderous King Philip? Had it come to pass, as Obid had long predicted, that Eliot’s Indians had forgot their teachings and returned to savagery? David could believe it of some, but never of Pikot! Besides, the look his friend had given him had said, “Caution!” If Pikot had really  joined with Philip, he would have cared little  whether David recognized him. What the