An hour later, the great trees, oak and chestnut, beech and poplar, suddenly gave way to saplings, many, close-set, and overrun with grapevines.  So dense was the growth, so unyielding the curtain of vines, that men and horses were brought to a halt as before a fortress wall.  Again they turned, and, skirting that stubborn network, came upon a swamp, where leafless trees, white as leprosy, stood up like ghosts from the water that gleamed between the lily-pads.  Leaving the swamp they climbed a hill, and at the summit found only the moon and the stars and a long plateau of sighing grass.  Behind them were the great mountains; before them, lesser heights, wooded hills, narrow valleys, each like its fellow, each indistinct and shadowy, with no sign of human tenant.

Haward gazed at the climbing moon and at the wide and universal dimness of the world beneath; then turned to the negro, and pointed to a few low trees growing at the eastern end of the plateau.

“Fasten the horses there, Juba,” he said.  “We will wait upon this hilltop until morning.  When the light comes, we may be able to see the clearing or the smoke from the cabin.”

When the horses had been tethered, master and man lay down upon the grass.  It was so still upon the hilltop, and the heavens pressed so closely, that the slave grew restless and strove to make talk.  Failing in this, he began to croon a savage, mournful air, and presently, forgetting himself, to sing outright.

“Be quiet!” ordered his master.  “There may be Indians abroad.”

The song came to an end as abruptly as it lad begun, and the singer, having nothing better to do, went fast asleep.  His companion, more wakeful, lay with his hands behind his head and his eyes upon the splendor of the firmament.  Lying so, he could not see the valleys nor the looming mountains.  There were only the dome of the sky, the grass, and himself.  He stared at the moon, and made pictures of her shadowy places; then fell to thinking of the morrow, and of the possibility that after all he might never find again the cabin in the valley.  While he laughed at this supposition, yet he played with it.  He was in a mood to think the loss of the trail of the expedition no great matter.  The woods were full of game, the waters of fish; he and Juba had only to keep their faces to the eastward, and a fortnight at most would bring them to the settlements.  But the valleys folded among the hills were many; what if the one he sought should still elude him?  What if the cabin, the sugar-tree, the crystal stream, had sunk from sight, like the city in one of Monsieur Gralland’s fantastic tales?  Perhaps they had done so,—­the spot had all the air of a bit of fairyland,—­and the woodland maid was gone to walk with the elves.  Well, perchance for her it would be better so.  And yet it would be pleasant if she should climb the hillside now and sit beside him, with her shy dark eyes and floating hair.  Her hair was long and fine, and the wind would lift it; her face was fair, and another than the wind should kiss it.  The night would not then be so slow in going.