Uttamussac! They would probably make a two days' journey of it. We had
that long, then, to live.

Captors and captives, we presently left the hut. On the threshold I
looked back, past the poltroon whom I had flung into the river one
midsummer day, to that prone and bleeding figure. As I looked, it
groaned and moved. The Indians behind me forced me on; a moment, and
we were out beneath the stars. They shone so very brightly; there was
one--large, steadfast, golden--just over the dark town behind us, over
the Governor's house. Did she sleep or did she wake? Sleeping or waking,
I prayed God to keep her safe and give her comfort. The stars now shone
through naked branches, black tree trunks hemmed us round, and under our
feet was the dreary rustling of dead leaves. The leafless trees gave
way to pines and cedars, and the closely woven, scented roof hid the
heavens, and made a darkness of the world beneath.

1. The modern York.

CHAPTER XXX IN WHICH WE START UPON A JOURNEY

WHEN the dawn broke, it found us traveling through a narrow
valley, beside a stream of some width. Upon its banks grew trees of
extraordinary height and girth; cypress and oak and walnut, they towered
into the air, their topmost branches stark and black against the roseate
heavens. Below that iron tracery glowed the firebrands of the maples,
and here and there a willow leaned a pale green cloud above the stream.
Mist closed the distances; we could hear, but not see, the deer where
they stood to drink in the shallow places, or couched in the gray and
dreamlike recesses of the forest.

Spectral, unreal, and hollow seems the world at dawn. Then, if ever, the
heart sickens and the will flags, and life becomes a pageant that hath
ceased to entertain. As I moved through the mist and the silence, and
felt the tug of the thong that bound me to the wrist of the savage who
stalked before me, I cared not how soon they made an end, seeing how
stale and unprofitable were all things under the sun.

Diccon, walking behind me, stumbled over a root and fell upon his knees,
dragging down with him the Indian to whom he was tied. In a sudden
access of fury, aggravated by the jeers with which his fellows greeted
his mishap, the savage turned upon his prisoner and would have stuck
a knife into him, bound and helpless as he was, had not the werowance
interfered. The momentary altercation over, and the knife restored
to its owner's belt, the Indians relapsed