six o'clock
Inside the bush-hut assigned to the Mohican and myself , the red torch-light flickered over the recumbent Sagamore , swathed in his blanket , motionless . But even as I looked one of his eyes opened a little way , glimmering like a jewel in the ruddy darkness , then closed again . So I stretched myself out in my blanket beside the Sagamore , and , thinking of Lois , fell presently into a sweet and dreamless sleep . At six o'clock the morning gun awoke me with its startling and annoying thunder . The Sagamore sat up in his blanket , wearing that half-irritated , half-shamed expression always to be seen on an Indian 's countenance when cannon are fired . An Indian has no stomach for artillery , and hates sight and sound of the metal monsters . For a few moments I bantered him sleepily , then dropped back into my blanket .