path again when it is passed?"

"Who that once bends from the line of his march in a fog can tell when
or how to turn to find it again! The mists of Horican are not like the
curls from a peace-pipe, or the smoke which settles above a mosquito
fire."

He was yet speaking, when a crashing sound was heard, and a cannon-ball
entered the thicket, striking the body of a sapling, and rebounding to
the earth, its force being much expended by previous resistance. The
Indians followed instantly like busy attendants on the terrible
messenger, and Uncas commenced speaking earnestly and with much action,
in the Delaware tongue.

"It may be so, lad," muttered the scout, when he had ended; "for
desperate fevers are not to be treated like a toothache. Come, then, the
fog is shutting in."

"Stop!" cried Heyward; "first explain your expectations."

"'Tis soon done, and a small hope it is; but it is better than nothing.
This shot that you see," added the scout, kicking the harmless iron with
his foot, "has ploughed the 'arth in its road from the fort, and we
shall hunt for the furrow it has made, when all other signs may fail. No
more words, but follow, or the fog may leave us in the middle of our
path, a mark for both armies to shoot at."

Heyward perceiving that, in fact, a crisis had arrived when acts were
more required than words, placed himself between the sisters, and drew
them swiftly forward, keeping the dim figure of their leader in his eye.
It was soon apparent that Hawkeye had not magnified the power of the
fog, for before they had proceeded twenty yards, it was difficult for
the different individuals of the party to distinguish each other, in the
vapor.

They had made their little circuit to the left, and were already
inclining again towards the right, having, as Heyward thought, got over
nearly half the distance to the friendly works, when his ears were
saluted with the fierce summons, apparently within twenty feet of them,
of--

"Qui va la?"

"Push on!" whispered the scout, once more bending to the left.

"Push on!" repeated Heyward; when the summons was renewed by a dozen
voices, each of which seemed charged with menace.

"C'est moi," cried Duncan, dragging, rather than leading those he
supported, swiftly onward.

"Bete!--qui?--moi!"

"Ami de la France."

"Tu m'as plus l'air d'un _ennemi_ de la France; arrete! ou pardieu je te
ferai ami du diable. Non! feu, camarades, feu!"

The order was instantly obey