It was difficult, as Henry had said, and Paul felt, too, a sense of humiliation; but then one’s life was at stake, and without hesitation he dropped to his knees, crawling slowly after the dark figure of his comrade.  Henry made no sound and Paul but a little, not enough to be heard ten feet away.  Henry stopped now and then, as if he would listen intently a moment or two, and Paul, of course, stopped just behind him.  Fortune seemed to favor their daring.  The great silence lasted, broken only by puffs of wind and rain, and the wet leaves of the forest rubbing softly against each other.  Paul looked back once.  The cabin was already melting into a blur, although not twenty yards distant, and in as many yards more it would be lost completely in the surrounding darkness.

Now the forest was only a few yards away, but to Paul it seemed very far.  His knees and wrists began to ache, and the two rifles became awkward for him to carry.  He wondered how Henry could go forward with so much ease, but he resolved to persist as long as his comrade led the way.

The dark outline of the wood slowly came nearer, then nearer yet, and then they entered it, pressing silently among the hushes and the black shadows of the lofty trees.  Here Henry rose to his feet and Paul imitated him, thankful to rest his aching knees and wrists, and to stand up in the form and spirit of a man.

“We may slip through unseen and unheard,” whispered Henry, “and then again we may not.  Come on; we’ll need all our caution now.”

But as they took the first step erect, a cry arose behind them, a cry so full of ferocity and chagrin that Paul absolutely shuddered from head to foot.  It came from the clearing, near the hut, and Paul, without the telling of it, knew what had happened.

“They’ve tried the door of the cabin, only to find it open and the place empty,” whispered Henry.  “Now, we must not go too fast, Paul.  In this pitchy darkness not even a Shawnee could see us ten feet away, but he could hear us.  No noise, Paul!”

They stole forward, one close behind the other, going but slowly, seeking with sedulous care to avoid any noise that would bring the savages upon them.  The rain, which had grown steadier, was a Godsend.  It and the wind together kept up a low, moaning sound that hid the faint pressure of Paul’s footsteps.  The cry behind them at the cabin was repeated once, echoing away through the black and dripping forest.  After that Paul heard nothing, but to the keener ears of Henry came now and then the soft, sliding sound of rapid footsteps, a word or two uttered low, and the faint swish of bushes, swinging back into place after a body passed.  He knew that the warriors were now seeking eagerly for them, but with the aid of the intense darkness he hoped that he and Paul would steal safely through their lines.  They went slowly forward for perhaps half an hour, stopping often and listening.  Once Henry’s hand on Paul’s shoulder, they sank a little lower in the bushes, and Henry, but not Paul, saw the shadowy outline of a figure passing near.