Jack slipped away and the girl leaned back against the tree and looked about her curiously. The outer world, dark as it was with the shadows of coming night, looked good to her after the long hours she had spent in the gloom of the wagon. Fresh blood was filling her veins and her spirits were reviving. She had not forgotten Wilwiloway and his cruel murder, but her memory had been blurred both by weakness and by the rush of new sensations. The spot, though by no means ideal for a camp, was probably the best that the region afforded. It was on a low ridge or dune of sand, part of an ancient beach heaped up when Lake Erie spread far beyond its modern bounds. It stood three or four feet instead of only as many inches above the sluggish river. On the near bank a giant oak, undermined by the stream through uncounted years, had toppled sideways until its branches swept the dark water. The sunlight had slipped in along the slit made by the river and had rested on the mold, stirring it to life. For a hundred feet or more a thick mat of pea-vines and annis grass bordered the stream, and toward these the tired mules were straining, even while Cato was loosening their harness. Close beneath the leaning tree Jack was kindling a fire, small, after the Indian fashion, but sufficient for their needs. Williams was chopping down some bushes that had found lodgment on either side of the tree. No one was paying any attention to Alagwa. Later, however, after Cato, who like most of his race was a born cook, had prepared the supper of wild turkey and fat bacon and cornpone, Jack glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Then he called to Cato: “Fetch the grub over here, Cato,” he ordered, pointing to the great boulder on which the girl sat. “This stone will do for a table.” Alagwa’s heart warmed. Instinctively she knew that he had chosen the supper place for her convenience. Night came on while they were eating. The red tints that stretched up from the west faded to palest gray. Closer and closer in drew the forest till it seemed to press like a wall upon the little band, blotting out their forms and leaving only the dim glimmer of their pale faces. Cato’s darker skin it hid altogether. Beneath the leaning trees the dying fire glowed like a red eye. To the south the strip of water reflected what little light was left. With the closing in of the night the four grew very still, thinking their own thoughts and dreaming their own dreams.