“This is strange—­very strange,” said Glenn.

A sound resembling the cry of an owl was heard in the direction of the cliff.  It was answered on the west apparently by the shrill howl of a wolf.

“The signal!” said Boone.  “Now let us be on the alert,” he continued, “and I think we will surprise them, both on and under the snow.  Let no one fire without first consulting me, even should they venture within the range of your guns.”

The party resumed their respective stations, and once more not a sound of any description was heard for a considerable length of time.  Roughgrove was at the side of Boone, and the other three men were posted as before described.  The hounds had been sent back to their lair in the stable.  Not a motion, animate or inanimate, save the occasional shooting of the stars in the begemmed firmament, could be observed.

While Glenn rested upon his gun, attracted ever and anon by the twinkling host above, a throng of unwonted memories crowded upon him.  He thought of his guileless youth; the uncontaminated days of enjoyment ere he had mingled with the designing and heartless associates who strove to entice him from the path of virtue; of the hopes of budding manhood; of ambitious schemes to win a name by great and honourable deeds; of parents, kindred, home; of her, who had been the angel of all his dreams of paradise below:  and then he contemplated his present condition, and notwithstanding his resolution was unabated, yet in spite of all his struggles, a tear bedewed his cheek.  He felt that his fate was hard, but he knew that his course was proper, and he resolved to fulfil his vow.  But with his sadness, gloomy forebodings, and deep and unusual thoughts obtruded.  In the scene of death and carnage that was about to ensue, it occurred to him more than once that it might be his lot to fall.  This was a painful thought.  He was brave in conflict, and would not have hesitated to rush reckless into the midst of danger; but he was calm now, and the thought of death was appalling.  He would have preferred to die on a nobler field, if he were to fall in battle.  He did not wish to die in his youth, to be cut off, without accomplishing the many ends he had so often meditated, and without reaping a few of the sweets of life as the reward of his voluntary sacrifice.  He also desired to appear once more in the busy and detracting world, to vindicate the character that might have been unjustly aspersed, to reward the true friendship of those whose confidence had never been shaken, and to rebuke, perhaps forgive, the enemies who had recklessly pursued him.  But another, and yet a more stirring and important thought obtruded upon his reflections.  It was one he had never seriously considered before, and it now operated upon him with irresistible power.  It was a thought of things beyond the grave.  The stillness of midnight, the million stars above him, the blue eternal expanse through which they were