e mist and the half dark into strange
shapes along the trail.

The day was broad awake when Menard gave way. His muscles had been
tried to the limit of his endurance during these many desperate days
and sleepless nights that he had thought to be over. He fell loosely
forward. For a space they dragged him, but the burden was heavy, and
the chief ordered a rest. The band of warriors scattered about to
sleep under the trees, leaving a young brave to watch the Big Buffalo,
who slept motionless where they had dropped him in the long grass
close at hand. On every side were hills, shielding them from the view
of any chance straggler from the Onondaga villages, unless he should
clamber down the short slopes and search for them in the mist. A
stream tumbled by, not a dozen yards from Menard and his yawning
guardian.

When he awoke, the mist had thinned, but the sky showed no blue.
Beneath the gray stretch that reached from hill crest to hill crest,
light foaming clouds scudded across from east to west, though there
was little wind near the ground. The Captain listened for a time to
the noise of the stream before looking about. He changed his position,
and rheumatic pains shot through his joints. For the second time in
his life he realized that he was growing old; and with this thought
came another. What sort of a soldier was he if he could not pass
through such an experience without paying the old man's penalty. To be
sure his head was battered and bruised, and scattered over his
shoulders and arms and hips were a dozen small wounds to draw in the
damp from the grass, but he did not think of these. In his weak,
half-awake state, he was discouraged, with the feeling that the best
of his life was past. And the thought that he, a worn old soldier,
could have dreamed what he had dreamed of the maid and her love sank
down on his heart like a weight. But this thought served another
purpose: to think of the maid was to think of her danger; and this was
to be the alert soldier again, with a plan for every difficulty as
long as he had life in his body. And so, before the mood could drag
him down, he was himself again.

Most of the Indians were asleep, sprawling about under the trees near
the water. The warrior guarding Menard appeared to be little more than
a youth. He sat with his knees drawn up and his head bowed, his
blanket pulled close around him, and his oily black hair tangled about
his eyes. Menard lay on his back looking at