We had not gone above half a mile when Grul stopped, and bent his mad head to listen. Such an attitude of listening I had never seen before. The feathers and stalks in his cap seemed to lean forward like a horse's ears; his hair and beard took on a like inclination of intentness; even the grim little scarlet head upon his staff seemed to listen with its master. And Marc did as Grul did. Then came a sound as of a woman weeping, very close at hand. Grul motioned us to pass him, and creep forward. We did so, lying down and moving as softly as lizards. But I turned to see what our mysterious guide was doing--and lo, he was gone. He might have faded into a summer exhalation, so complete and silent was his exit. This was too much. Only my experience as a woods-fighter, my instinctive caution, kept me from springing to my feet and calling him. But my suspicions were all on fire. I laid a firm hand of detention on Marc's arm, and whispered:-- "He's gone; 'tis a trap." Marc looked at me in some wonder, and more impatience. "No trap, Father; that's Grul's way," "Well," I whispered, "we had better go another way, I'm thinking." As I spoke, the woman's weeping came to us more distinctly. Something in the sound seemed to catch Marc's heart, and his face changed. "'Tis all right, I tell you, Father!" came from between his teeth. "Come! come! Oh, I know the voice!" And he crept forward resolutely. And, of course, I followed. Chapter X A Bit of White Petticoat We had not advanced above a score of paces when, peering stealthily between the stems of herbs and underbrush, we saw what Grul had desired us to see. Two more canoes were drawn up at the water's edge. Four savages were in sight, sprawling in indolent attitudes under the shade of a wide water-maple. In their midst, at the foot of the tree, lay a woman bound securely. She was huddled together in a posture of hopeless despair; and a dishevelled glory of gold-red tresses fell over her face to hide it. She lay in a moveless silence. Yet the sound of weeping continued, and Marc, gripping my hand fiercely, set his mouth to my ear and gasped:-- "'Tis my own maid! 'Tis Prudence!" Then I saw where she sat, a little apart, a slender maid with a lily face, and hair glowing dark red in the full sun that streamed upon her. She was so tied to another tree that she might have no comfort or companionship of her sister,--for I needed now no telling to convey it to me that the lady with the hidden face and the unweeping anguish was Mistress Mizpah Hanford, mother of the child whom I had just seen carried away.