I guessed that the current carried us a good five miles an hour. The distance from Corn Island to the rendezvous at the mouth of the Tennessee River was said to be considerably more than three hundred miles, and at the rate of progress made by the heavy boats, lying by during the night as they did, it would require full six days in which to make the journey. We in the canoe could not look forward to less than five days of this drifting on the river, in case we met with no delay, and while I thought of my mother it seemed as if we were going to the other side of the world. I wondered whether I might ever see her again, and it appeared much as if the chances were against our meeting, judging from the dangers into which we had already run when the voyage was hardly more than well begun. By this dwelling upon the possibilities I soon worked myself into a most cowardly frame of mind, from which I did not awaken until we were come to a long stretch of sandy land either side of the river, where there was no fear our enemies could find a hiding-place. Then it was that Simon Kenton started a conversation, as if knowing I needed cheering, and he did not bring it to a close until we were near the wooded portion of the shores again. When daylight came we had seen nothing to cause alarm, although all knew full well that we might have passed scores of savages without being aware of the fact, and the scout paddled the boat toward the western shore, as he said in a low tone: "I'm countin' on havin' a look around, lads, an' this time you'll stay quietly aboard till I come back, or the flat-boats heave in sight." Paul, understanding that these words were somewhat in the nature of a reproof to me, said boldly: "It was well for you, Simon Kenton, that Louis insisted on going ashore, else the sun had never risen again for your eyes." "All that I know right well, lad, an' I'd be a brute if I didn't give the fact due weight; but I'm not willin' you should put your own lives in peril for me. You've got people who love you, while I----" He ceased speaking suddenly as if having said more than he intended, and again my tongue was an unruly member. "Haven't you any kin who would mourn because of your absence?" I asked, and Simon Kenton's face grew pale, bronzed though it was by the weather. "The less that's said about me the better," he replied curtly, and then, the canoe being alongside the bank, he sprang out to make her fast, thus putting an end to further words. He was absent no more than half an hour, during which time Paul and I sat motionless and silent, hidden by the foliage, from the view of any who might pass either by land or water. When he returned we knew he had seen no signs of danger, although not a word was spoken until we were a mile or more from the halting place. Then he said quietly: