sed again, and once more Henry whispered his
instructions.

"I think we'd better get down and crawl," he said. "It's a hard thing to
do with two rifles each, but we must do it until we get to the woods."

It was difficult, as Henry had said, and Paul felt, too, a sense of
humiliation; but then one's life was at stake, and without hesitation he
dropped to his knees, crawling slowly after the dark figure of his
comrade. Henry made no sound and Paul but a little, not enough to be heard
ten feet away. Henry stopped now and then, as if he would listen intently
a moment or two, and Paul, of course, stopped just behind him. Fortune
seemed to favor their daring. The great silence lasted, broken only by
puffs of wind and rain, and the wet leaves of the forest rubbing softly
against each other. Paul looked back once. The cabin was already melting
into a blur, although not twenty yards distant, and in as many yards more
it would be lost completely in the surrounding darkness.

Now the forest was only a few yards away, but to Paul it seemed very far.
His knees and wrists began to ache, and the two rifles became awkward for
him to carry. He wondered how Henry could go forward with so much ease,
but he resolved to persist as long as his comrade led the way.

The dark outline of the wood slowly came nearer, then nearer yet, and then
they entered it, pressing silently among the hushes and the black shadows
of the lofty trees. Here Henry rose to his feet and Paul imitated him,
thankful to rest his aching knees and wrists, and to stand up in the form
and spirit of a man.

"We may slip through unseen and unheard," whispered Henry, "and then again
we may not. Come on; we'll need all our caution now."

But as they took the first step erect, a cry arose behind them, a cry so
full of ferocity and chagrin that Paul absolutely shuddered from head to
foot. It came from the clearing, near the hut, and Paul, without the
telling of it, knew what had happened.

"They've tried the door of the cabin, only to find it open and the place
empty," whispered Henry. "Now, we must not go too fast, Paul. In this
pitchy darkness not even a Shawnee could see us ten feet away, but he
could hear us. No noise, Paul!"

They stole forward, one close behind the other, going but slowly, seeking
with sedulous care to avoid any noise that would bring the savages upon
them. The rain, which had grown steadier, was a Godsend. It and the wind
together kept up a low,