The trapper stole a yard or two in front of us, where he sank softly down upon his face until only his head was visible. Nat fingered his gun nervously beside me, while I, not a whit less agitated, waited for the canoe to appear through the interstices of the bushes in front. In a moment, I heard the faint ripple of an oar, and saw the trapper slowly raising his head and bringing his rifle in front of him. He raised his hand warningly for us to remain quiet until the moment should arrive. I heard the click of my companion’s gun, as he raised the hammer, and admonished him to be careful. Suddenly, I saw the red head-dress of one of the savages glittering through the bushes, and, before I could speak, came an explosion beside me like the crash of a thunderbolt. Almost simultaneously, the herculean frame of the trapper bounded over me, and he exclaimed: “Who fired that? I’m shot.” Nat and I sprang to our feet and dashed after him; but as I turned, though bewildered with excitement, I looked at the spot where the canoe was seen. It was gone! We dashed up the bank, and in a moment reached Biddon. The excitement had completely gone, and he stood coolly feeling his ear. “Was that your gun, Jarsey?” he asked. “No, sir; mine is still loaded.” “How is yours, Greeny?” Nat lifted his, examined the lock and looked into the barrel. He had indeed discharged it, grazing the trapper’s head so closely as to wound his ear. “Wonder if that was my gun? Sure, I believe it was,” he remarked, still looking into the barrel. “Was it your gun?” repeated the trapper, his brow darkening like a thunder-cloud, and laying his hand upon his knife-handle, as he approached. Nat looked up and started as he saw his visage fairly gleaming with passion. “I didn’t shoot it, Bill, by thunder!” he expostulated. The face of the trapper changed. It grew paler, and the dark cloud fled from it. He replaced his drawn knife. He believed the words of Nat. Matters were approaching a crisis. The recent startling events had their effect upon us all. The trapper avowed he could not stand “sich goin’s on,” and should leave for some other quarters. Little sleep came to Nat at night. His adventure with the savage, and the more recent occurrence alarmed him. He had discovered that there were consequences to be feared from both sides. I was still unwilling to believe that there was anything in the events given which would not soon be explained. It was evident our foes were around, and from some inexplicable cause, had pursued an unusual course toward us. We had all been exposed to their power, and had yet escaped harmless. What was the meaning of this? And, above all, what was the object of the appearance and disappearance of the canoe at the different times mentioned? Who could be that fair being of whose existence I only was as yet aware?