Out of the shadow of the trees into the grassy space stepped an Indian; a second followed, a third, a fourth,--one by one they came from the gloom into the sunlight, until we had counted a score or more. They made no pause, a glance telling them to what were due the trampled grass and the muddied water. As they crossed the stream one stooped and drank from his hand, but they said no word and made no noise. All were painted black; a few had face and chest striped with yellow. Their headdresses were tall and wonderful, their leggings and moccasins fringed with scalp locks; their hatchets glinted in the sunshine, and their quivers were stuck full of arrows. One by one they glided from the stream into the thick woods beyond. We waited until we knew that they were were deep in the forest, then crept from the willows and went our way. “They were Youghtenunds,” I said, in the low tones we used when we spoke at all, “and they went to the southward.” “We may thank our stars that they missed our trail,” Diccon answered. We spoke no more, but, leaving the stream, struck again toward the south. The day wore on, and still we went without pause. Sun and shade and keen wind, long stretches of pine and open glades where we quickened our pace to a run, dense woods, snares of leafless vines, swamp and thicket through which we toiled so slowly that the heart bled at the delay, streams and fallen trees,--on and on we hurried, until the sun sank and the dusk came creeping in upon us. “We've dined with Duke Humphrey to-day,” said Diccon at last; “but if we can keep this pace, and don't meet any more war parties, or fall foul of an Indian village, or have to fight the wolves to-night, we'll dine with the Governor to-morrow. What's that?” “That” was the report of a musket, and a spent ball had struck me above the knee, bruising the flesh beneath the leather of my boot. We wheeled, and looked in the direction whence lead come that unwelcome visitor. There was naught to be seen. It was dusk in the distance, and there were thickets too, and fallen logs. Where that ambuscade was planted, if one or twenty Indians lurked in the dusk behind the trees, or lay on the further side of those logs, or crouched within a thicket, no mortal man could tell. “It was a spent ball,” I said. “Our best hope is in our heels.” “There are pines beyond, and smooth going,” he answered; “but if ever I thought to run from an Indian!”