After that I made no more effort to keep up a conversation, and tried very hard to force from my mind any speculations regarding Jacob and his father, but with poor success. It seemed as if every subject had some bearing upon the matter, and so disagreeable was the constant harking back to what was beyond my control, that I really felt glad when the shadows of night began to lengthen, for almost any kind of action was better than remaining there in hiding, eating one's heart out. Sergeant Corney gave no sign that he realized night had come, until I called his attention to the fact, and then he said: "Ay, lad, the time is drawin' nigh; but I reckon that we'll be wise to hold on as we are a spell longer." Then he lay back as if bent on going to sleep, and I held my peace, determined to say no more even though he remained there until sunrise. It must have been ten o'clock before he showed signs of life, and then he rose to his feet as he said: "I allow that we'd better be movin', though there ain't any great need of hurryin'. We'll be able to cover three miles in an hour, an' even then be a bit early for good work." "How will you set about findin' Jacob?" I asked, giving words to the question which had been in my mind ever since we came to a halt. "Our only chance is to keep movin' nearabout Thayendanega's camp, an' trustin' to accident for comin' across him." Sergeant Corney strapped his rifle on his back, as if believing he would have no use for it; but he made certain his knife was loose in its sheath, and I understood that if we had trouble it would be at close quarters. At last we were ready, and this time the sergeant did not propose that I lead the way. He strode off in advance, with never a glance backward to see if I was following, and in silence we went on toward the danger-point at a swift pace, until the old man halted to say, in a whisper: "There should be sentinels nearabout, unless Thayendanega believes he has killed all the decent men in the Mohawk Valley; so have your wits about you, lad, for a mistake now will cost us dearly." Chapter IX. The Indian Camp I claim that it is nothing to my discredit when I say that there was a great fear in my heart while we advanced at a snail's pace, after having come to that point where we might reasonably expect the Indian sentinels would be posted. In the darkness, moving amidst the dense foliage, where it required the utmost care to avoid betraying one's whereabouts, advancing blindly into you knew not what peril, was well calculated to make even the most courageous feel a bit timid. At any moment we might literally stumble over a party of warriors in such numbers that there could be no possibility of making our escape, and in case we should come face to face with no more than four or five of the enemy, it would be well-nigh useless to show fight, because of the hundreds everywhere around who could be summoned to the assistance of their comrades.