When the sun showed that it was well past noon, Paul awoke. He glanced at Henry, who nodded. The nod meant that all was well. By and by Mr. Pennypacker, also, awoke and then Henry in his turn went to sleep so easily and readily that it seemed a mere matter of will. The schoolmaster glanced at him and whispered to Paul: "A great youth, Paul! Truly a great youth! It is far from old Greece to this forest of Kaintuckee, but he makes me think of the mighty heroes who are enshrined in the ancient legends and stories." "That thought has come to me, too," Paul whispered back. "I like to picture him as Hector, but Hector with a better fate. I don't think Henry was born for any untimely end." "No, that could not be," said the schoolmaster with conviction. Then they relapsed into silence and just about the time the first shadow betokened the coming twilight Paul heard a faint gurgling sound which he was sure was made by oars. He touched the schoolmaster and whispered to him to listen. Then he pulled Henry's shoulder slightly, and instantly the great youth sat up, wide awake. "Someone is near," whispered Paul. "Listen!" Henry bent his head close to the water and distinctly heard the swishing of paddles, coming in the direction that they had followed in the night. It was a deliberate sound and Henry inferred at once that those who approached were in no hurry and feared no enemy. Then he drew the second inference that it was Indians. White men would know that danger was always about them in these woods. "We have nothing to do but lie here and see them as they pass," he whispered to his companions. "We are really as safe among these dense canes as if we were a hundred miles away, provided we make no noise." There was no danger that any of them would make a noise. They lay so still that their boat never moved a hair and not even the wariest savage on the river would have thought that one of their most formidable enemies and two of his friends lay hidden in the canes so near. "Look!" whispered Henry. "There is Braxton Wyatt!" Henry and Paul were eager enough to see but the schoolmaster was perhaps the most eager of all. This was something new in his experience. He had heard much of Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, once a pupil of his, and he did not understand how one of white blood and training could turn aside to join the Indians, and to become a more ruthless enemy of his own people than the savages themselves. Yet there could be no doubt of its truth, and now that he saw Wyatt he understood. Evil passions make an evil face. Braxton Wyatt's jaw was now heavy and projecting, his eyes were dark and lowering, and his cheek bones seemed to have become high like those of the warriors with whom he lived. The good Mr. Pennypacker shuddered. He had lived long and he could read the hearts of men. He knew now that Braxton Wyatt, despite his youth, was lost beyond redemption to honor and truth. The schoolmaster shuddered again.