"My brother has much to learn of the forest and its ways," he
commented.
He put his hand on my arm and led me around the trunk, Corlaer
following with a broad grin on his face.
There at my feet was a deep, narrow slot in the earth, a groove some
eighteen inches wide and perhaps twelve inches deep, that disappeared
into the gloom which reigned under the interlacing boughs overhead.
There was shrubbery and underbrush on every side, but none grew in or
on the edge of the slot. It did not go straight, but crookedly like
a snake, curving and twisting as it chanced to meet a mossy boulder
or a tree too big to be readily felled or uprooted. As I stooped
over it I saw that its bottom and steeply sloping sides were
hard-packed, beaten down by continual pressure, the relentless
pressure of countless human feet for generations and centuries.
"My brother is standing upon the Wa-a-gwen-ne-yuh, the Great Trail of
my people." said Ta-wan-ne-ars proudly. "It is the highway of the
People of the Long House. Day after day we shall follow it, along
the valley of the Mohawks, into the land of the Oneidas and
Tuscaroras, on into the valley where the Onondagas keep alight the
sacred Council Fire which was kindled by Da-ga-no-weda and
Ha-yo-wont-ha, the Founders of the League, and on, still on, my white
brother, past the country of the Cayugas to the villages of my own
people whom you call the Senecas, and at the last to the Thunder
Waters of Jagara, where Joncaire works to conquer the domain of the
Long House for the French King."
"But over this same trail, Ta-wan-ne-ars, the warriors of the Long
House shall burst upon the French to frustrate that plan!" I
exclaimed.
"Aye, so it shall be," he replied.
Corlaer sighed and resettled his pack on his shoulders.
"We hafe much distance to go today," he said.
Ta-wan-ne-ars instantly led the way into the groove of the trail, and
as if instinctively swung into an easy loping trot. I followed him
and the Dutchman brought up the rear.
It was cool under the trees, for the sun seldom penetrated the
foliage, dense already although it was only the fag-end of Spring.
And it was very silent--terribly, oppressively silent. The crack of
a stick underfoot was like a musket-shot. The padding of our feet on
the resilient leaf-mold was like the low rolling of muffled drums.
The timorous twittering of birds seemed to set the echoes flying.
Yet I was amazed when Ta-wan-ne-ars halted abruptly in mid-afternoon,
and inclined his ear toward the trail behind us.
"What is it?" I asked, and so completely had the spirit of the forest
taken possession of me that I whispered the words.
"Something is following us," he answered.
Corlaer put his ear to the bottom of the trail, and a curious
expression crossed his face.
"_Ja,_" was all he said.