m there
while the night lasted. But he never ceased to watch--a silent, powerful
figure, with the rifle lying across his lap, ready to be used at a
moment's notice. His stillness was something marvelous. Even had it been
light, an ordinary observer would not have seen him move a hair's breadth.
He was a part of the silent wilderness.

Midnight, and then the long hours. Faint noises arose in the thickets, bet
the ear of the gray statue was alive, and he knew. The rabbits were
hopping about, at play, perhaps, in the moonlight; a deer was passing;
perhaps a panther stirred somewhere; but these were things that neither he
nor Paul feared; it was only man that they dreaded. After a while a
faint, clear note rose, far to the east, and to it came three replies like
it, and also far away. Henry laughed low. They were the familiar signals,
but he and Paul were well hidden, and they would escape through the lines
before morning. They might easily go back to Wareville, too, but he was
resolved not to abandon either the horses or the powder. The powder was
needed at Marlowe, and it would be a bitter humiliation not to take it
there.

Two hours more passed, and then Henry heard the signals again, but now
closer. By chance, perhaps, the Shawnees had formed their ring about the
right place, and it was time to act. Paul had slept well and was rested,
so Henry leaned over and shook him. Paul opened his eyes, and any question
that he might have wished to ask was cut short at his lips by Henry's low,
but commanding,

"Caution! Caution!"

"It is far after midnight, and we must move, Paul," said Henry. "They may
have blundered on our trail before it was dark, and they are still looking
for us. I think they are coming this way."

Paul understood in a moment, but he asked no question; if Henry said so,
it was true, it did not matter how he knew. He rose, imitating Henry,
taking his two rifles, and they stole silently away from the little cove
that had been so full of comfort for both.

"We'll go toward the south now," said Henry, "and on your life, Paul,
don't stumble!"

Paul knew the worth of this advice, and he was woodsman enough to avoid
tripping on the vines and bushes, despite the darkness. One mile dropped
behind them, then two, then three, and Henry suddenly put his hand upon
the shoulder of Paul, who, understanding the signal, sank down at once
beside his comrade.

The bushes were thick there, but Paul soon saw the danger,