The guidance of Sneak was infallible. Ere long the party reached the vicinity of the river, which was indicated by the tall trees and the valleys, and all apprehensions of immediate danger subsiding, they slackened their pace. Sneak, though not so much distressed as the panting horses, fell back, and entered into conversation with Boone relative to the probable operations of the Indians, while Joe continued some little distance in advance, apparently wrapped in contemplation of the recent scenes that had so much astonished him. When he was within about a hundred paces of his long-wished for home, he thought he saw an object moving about in front of the palisade. He checked his pony for an instant; but convinced that the savages could not possibly have arrived already, he again whipped onward, inclined to believe it to be nothing more than a phantom of the brain. But when he proceeded a few stops farther, his pony stopped suddenly and snorted, while a being, which he could not exactly define, was distinctly seen to rise up and glide swiftly out of view round the inclosure. “Who’s that!” shouted he, and at the same time looking eagerly back at his companions, whose near approach induced him to maintain his position. “Go on, Joe! What’s the matter?” remarked Glenn, the head of his steed having passed over the back of the pony as he stood across the path and blocked up the way. “I beg to be excused! As sure as I’m alive, I saw an Indian run round towards the gate!” replied Joe. “Foller me,” said Sneak, poising his spear in the air, and advancing. “Thank Heaven, it’s you!” exclaimed the mysterious object, coming forward fearlessly, on hearing the men’s voices. “Dod rot your cowardly skin!” said Sneak, after looking at the approaching form and turning to Joe, “how dare you to be frightened at sich a thing as that—a female woman!” “It was not me—it was my pony, you great—” “What?” asked Sneak, sharply, turning abruptly round, as they paused at the gate. “You great long buffalo tapeworm!” said Joe, alighting on the side of the pony opposite to his quarrelsome companion, and then going forward and opening the gate in silence. “What brings thee hither at this late hour, Mary?” inquired Glenn, on recognizing the ferryman’s daughter. “Nothing—only—I”—stammered the abashed girl, who had expected only to see our hero and his man. “Speak out, lass, if you have any thing important to say,” remarked Boone, when they entered the inclosure, placing his hand encouragingly on the girl’s head. Mary still hesitated, and Boone was no little puzzled to conjecture rightly what it was she intended to impart; but he was convinced it must be something of no ordinary nature that would induce a maiden of reputed timidity to leave her father’s hut at a late hour of the night.