He nodded.

“Tonight,” said I, “I and my Indians lie here on this height of land, watching the swamp below, that nothing creep out of it.  On Monday morning, we move through it, straight northward, following the stream, and by Monday night we scout to Catharines-town.”

“That is clear,” he said, lifting his handsome head from his hands.  “And the signal should come from me.  Listen, Loskiel; you shall expect that signal between midnight of Monday and dawn.”

He rose, and I stood up; and for a moment we looked each other steadily in the eye.  Then he smiled faintly, shaking his head: 

“Not this time, Loskiel,” he said in a low voice.  “My spectral pilot gives no sign.  Death lies beyond the fires of Catharines-town.  I know, Loskiel—­ I know.”

“I also,” said I in a low voice, taking his outstretched hand, “for you shall live to make material amends as you have made them spiritually.  Only the act of deep contrition lies between you and God’s swift pardon.  It were a sin to doubt it.”

But he slowly shook his head, the faint smile lingering still.  Then his grip closed suddenly on my hand, released it, and he swung on his heel.

“Attention!” he said crisply.  “Sling packs!  Fall in!  Tr-r-rail arms!  March!”

CHAPTER XVIII

 The rite of the hidden children

My Indians and I stood watching our riflemen as they swung to the east and trotted out of sight among the trees.  Then, at a curt nod from me, the Indians lengthened their line, extending it westward along the height of land, and so spreading out that they entirely commanded the only outlet to the swamp below, by encircling both the trail and the headwaters of the evil-looking little stream.

Through the unbroken thatch of matted foliage overhead no faintest ray of sunlight filtered—­ not even where the stream coiled its slimy way among the tamaracks and spruces.  But south of us, along the ascending trail by which we had come, the westering sun glowed red across a ledge of rock, from which the hill fell sheer away, plunging into profound green depths, where unseen waters flowed southward to the Susquehanna.

Around the massive elbow of this ledge, our back-trail, ascending into view, curved under shouldering boulders.  Blueberry scrub, already turning gold and crimson, grew sparsely on the crag—­ cover enough for any watcher of the trail.  And thither I crept and stretched me out flat in the bushes, where I could see the trail we had lately traversed, and look along it far to our rear as clearly as one sees through a dim and pillared corridor.

West of me, a purplish ridge ran north, the sun shining low through a pine-clad notch.  Southwest of me, little blue peaks pricked the primrose sky; south-east lay endless forests, their green already veiled in an ashy blue bloom.  Far down, under me, wound the narrow back-trail through the gulf below.