Single file they marched in the leader’s tracks as he led them onward through the dark forests, out under the shining moon, never slacking his rapid pace, ever in a straight line, and yet avoiding the roughest going with that unerring instinct which was this Indian’s gift.  Toward dawn the moon went down, leaving them in darkness, but this made no difference, for, guided by the stars, Crow kept straight on his course.  Not till break of day did he come to a halt.

Then, on the banks of a narrow stream, the Indians kindled a fire and broiled some of the venison.  Crow told Isaac he could rest, so he made haste to avail himself of the permission, and almost instantly was wrapped in the deep slumber of exhaustion.  Three of the Indians followed suit, and Crow stood guard.  Sleepless, tireless, he paced to and fro on the bank his keen eyes vigilant for signs of pursuers.

The sun was high when the party resumed their flight toward the west.  Crow plunged into the brook and waded several miles before he took to the woods on the other shore.  Isaac suffered severely from the sharp and slippery stones, which in no wise bothered the Indians.  His feet were cut and bruised; still he struggled on without complaining.  They rested part of the night, and the next day the Indians, now deeming themselves practically safe from pursuit, did not exercise unusual care to conceal their trail.

That evening about dusk they came to a rapidly flowing stream which ran northwest.  Crow and one of the other Indians parted the willows on the bank at this point and dragged forth a long birch-bark canoe which they ran into the stream.  Isaac recognized the spot.  It was near the head of Mad River, the river which ran through the Wyandot settlements.

Two of the Indians took the bow, the third Indian and Isaac sat in the middle, back to back, and Crow knelt in the stern.  Once launched on that wild ride Isaac forgot his uneasiness and his bruises.  The night was beautiful; he loved the water, and was not lacking in sentiment.  He gave himself up to the charm of the silver moonlight, of the changing scenery, and the musical gurgle of the water.  Had it not been for the cruel face of Crow, he could have imagined himself on one of those enchanted canoes in fairyland, of which he had read when a boy.  Ever varying pictures presented themselves at the range, impelled by vigorous arms, flew over the shining bosom of the stream.  Here, in a sharp bend, was a narrow place where the trees on each bank interlaced their branches and hid the moon, making a dark and dim retreat.  Then came a short series of ripples, with merry, bouncing waves and foamy currents; below lay a long, smooth reach of water, deep and placid, mirroring the moon and the countless stars.  Noiseless as a shadow the canoe glided down this stretch, the paddle dipping regularly, flashing brightly, and scattering diamond drops in the clear moonlight.