But the warriors passed, and the black wilderness hid them.  Henry watched a little bush that one had brushed against, swinging in the moonlight with short jerks that became shorter until it grew quite still again.  But he did not yet go.  He and Paul knew that they must not move for many minutes.  A warrior might turn on his track, see their risen forms, and with his cry bring the whole band back again.  They yet lay motionless and still, while the moonlight filtered through the leaves and the silence of the forest endured.  Henry rose at last, and led the way again.

“They are certainly beating up the woods for us,” said he, “and I think that party will stumble right upon the little hollow where we rested.  It was well we moved.”

They increased their southward pace, and when it was scarcely two hours to the dawn Henry said: 

“I know of a good place in which to rest, and a still better place in which to fight if they should find us.”

“Where?”

“Holt’s lone cabin.  It’s less than half a mile from here.  I’ve had it in mind.”

Paul did not know what he meant by Holt’s lone cabin, but he was always willing to trust Henry without questions.  His imagination, flowering at once into splendor, depicted it as some kind of an impregnable fortress.

“Come, we mustn’t lose time!” said Henry, and he suddenly increased his speed, running so fast that Paul had much to do to keep pace with him.  Paul looked up, and he saw why Henry hastened.  The black curtain was rolled back a little in the east, and a splendid bar of gray appeared just at the horizon’s edge.  As Paul looked, it broadened and turned to silver, and then gold.  Paul thought it a very phantasy of fate that the coming of day, which is like life, should bring such terrors.

They reached a clearing—­a high, stony piece of ground—­and in its center Paul saw a little old log cabin, with a heavy open door that sagged on rude wooden hinges.

“Come,” said Henry, and they crossed the clearing to the cabin, pushing open the door.  Paul looked around at the narrow place, and the protecting walls gave him much comfort.  Evidently it had been abandoned in great haste.  In one corner lay a tiny moccasin that had been a baby’s shoe, and no one had disturbed it.  On a hook on the wall hung a woman’s apron, and two or three rude domestic utensils lay on the floor.  The sight had Its pathos for Paul, but he was glad that the Holts had gone in time.  He was glad, too, that they had left their house behind that he and Henry might use it when they needed it most, because he began to be conscious now of a great weakness, both of body and spirit.

Hooks and a stout wooden bar still remained, and as Henry closed the door and dropped the bar into place, he exclaimed exultantly: 

“They may get us, Paul, but they’ll pay a full price before they do it.”

“I’d rather they wouldn’t get us at all,” said Paul.