While thus watching and using these efforts to make known their situation to the wanderer, their excitement and suspense were too great to allow of any thought of sleep. Eyes and ears were constantly on the stretch, and every sound, however faint, awakened within them the hope that it might be Phil. But the hours passed on, and not a single sign appeared to them as they watched, and listened, and waited. “I wonder whether he is wandering about in this darkness or not,” said Bart, in an anxious-voice. “But I don’t suppose it is possible for any one to walk in these woods now.” “Niver a walk,” said Pat; “not he. He’s tin times comfortabler thin we are. He’s jist gathered some moss, an he’s made a comfortable bed for himself over beyont, somewheres under thim trays. Deed an he has. An what’s more, he’s asleep now, sound as a top, so he is; an I wish I wor as sound aslape as he is this blissed momint.” Bart shook his head mournfully. “No,” said he, with a sigh, “he won’t have much sleep to-night, poor old Phil; he’s got too much to think of. If he had some one with him, he’d feel all right; but it’s a terrible thing to be all alone this way. And it’s a miserable night; so horribly dark; so hot. I can scarcely breathe. I never knew such a night.” “Thrue for you,” said Pat. “It’s fairly suffocated I am. But at any rate, that makes no differ to Phil. Sure its betther for him to be too warrum thin too cowld, so it is.” “I can’t understand it,” said Bart, after a pause. “I don’t see why he should be lost. I wonder whether--but that’s nonsense.” “What’s that?” “I wonder whether Sam could have been following us,” said Bart, half shuddering at the frightful thought that had occurred. “Sam? What, the Injin?” “Yes.” “An what’d he be a follerin of us for?” “O, I don’t know. But you remember how he looked last night. He looked like a demon. He certainly tried to kill us.” “Sure but he was dead dhrunk an mad intoirely, so he was.” “But his mad fit may have lasted till to-day; and he may have been sneaking after us through the woods, and watching for a chance to do some mischief. And so--” Bart hesitated. Pat was silent for a few moments. “O, sure,” said he at last, “what are ye givin way for to sich mad deludherin notions? What’d he be wantin of a boy like Phil?” “He might have vowed vengeance on us.” “Yingince is it? By the powers, thin, if it’s vingince he wanted, it ud be Solomon that he’d track, not Phil, that niver so much as spoke one word to him, good or bad, all the time he was with us. And as for vingince, sure my iday is, that the Injin’d give up all the vingince that ivir wor for a glass o’ whiskey, so he wud.” Bart made no reply. The subject was too terrible to be discussed. He tried to dismiss the thought from his mind. But the idea, having once suggested itself, was not to be got rid of so easily. Do what he could, it came back to him over and over again, taking possession of his mind more and more strongly.