But this trail, since we had left the sunny glade, had become harder under foot, and far more easy to travel; and we made fast time along it, so that early in the afternoon we suddenly came out into that vast belt of firm ground and rocky, set with tremendous oaks and pines and hemlocks, on the northern edge of which lies Catharines-town, on both banks of the stream.

And here the stream rushed out through this country as though frightened, running with a mournful sound into the northern forest; and the pines were never still, sighing and moaning high above us, so that the never ceasing plaint of wind and water filled the place.

And here, on a low, bushy ridge, we lay all day, seeing in the forest not one living thing, nor any movement in that dim solitude, save where the grey and wraith-like water tossed a flat crest against some fallen tree, or its dull and sullen surface gleamed like lead athwart the valley far ahead.

My Indians squatted, or sprawled prone along the ridge; Lois lay flat on her stomach beside me, her chin resting on her clasped hands.  We talked of many things that afternoon—­ of life as we had found it, and what it promised us—­ of death, if we must find it here in these woods before I made her mine.  And of how long was the spirit’s trail to God—­ if truly it were but a swift, upward flight like to the rushing of an arrow already flashing out of sight ere the twanging buzz of the bow-string died on the air.  Or if it were perhaps a long, slow, painful journey through thick night, toilsome, blindly groping, wings adroop trailing against bruised heels.  Or if we two must pass by hell, within sight and hearing of the thunderous darkness, and feel the rushing wind of the pit hot on one’s face.

Sometimes, like a very child, she prattled of happiness, which she had never experienced, but meant to savour, wedded or not—­ talked to me there of all she had never known and would now know and realize within her mother’s tender arms.

“And sometimes, Euan, dreaming of her I scarce see how, within my heart, I can find room for you also.  Yet, I know well there is room for both of you, and that one without the other would leave my happiness but half complete....  I wonder if I resemble her?  Will she know me—­ and I her?  How shall we meet, Euan—­ after more than a score of years?  She will see my moccasins, and cry out!  She will see my face and know me, calling me by name!  Oh, happiness!  Oh, miracle!  Will the night never come!”

“Dear maid and tender!  You should not build your hopes too high, so that they crush you utterly if they must fall to earth again.”

“I know.  Amochol may have slain her.  We will learn all when you take Amochol—­ when God delivers him into your hands this night....  How will you do it, Euan?”

“Take him, you mean?”

“Aye.”

“We lie south, just outside the fire-ring’s edge.  Boyd watches them from the north.  His signal to us begins the business.  We leap straight for the altar and take Amochol at its very foot, the while Boyd’s heavy rifles deal death on every side, keeping the others busy while we are securing Amochol.  Then we all start south for the army, God willing, and meet our own people on the high-ridge east of us.”