My comrades, wearied with the long ride, were soon in deep slumber--the
sentries only keeping awake. For me, was neither rest nor sleep--my
misery forbade repose.
Most of the night I spent in passing to and fro around the little pond,
that lay faintly gleaming in the centre of the open ground.
I fancied I found relief in thus roving about; it seemed to still the
agitation of my spirit, and prevented my reflections from becoming too
intense.
A new regret occupied my thoughts--I regretted that I had not carried
out my intention to fire at the chief of the murderers--I regretted I
had not killed him on the spot--the monster had escaped, and my sister
was still in his power--perhaps beyond the hope of rescue. As I thought
thus, I blamed the hunters for having hindered me.
Had they foreseen the result, they might have acted otherwise; but it
was beyond human foresight to have anticipated the alarm.
The two men who had caused it were again with us. Their conduct, so
singular and mysterious, had given rise to strong suspicion of their
loyalty, and their re-appearance--they had joined us while advancing
towards the camp--had been hailed with an outburst of angry menace.
Some even talked of shooting them out of their saddles, and this threat
would most probably have been carried into effect, had the fellows not
offered a ready explanation.
They alleged that they had got separated from the troop before it made
its last halt, how they did not say; that they knew nothing of the
advance of the scouts, or that the Indians were near; that they had got
lost in the woods, and had fired their guns as signals in hopes that we
should answer them. They acknowledged having met three men afoot, but
they believed them to be Indians, and kept out of their way; that
afterwards seeing the party near, they had recognised and ridden up to
it.
Most of the men were contented with this explanation. What motive,
reasoned they, could the two have in giving an alarm to the enemy? Who
could suspect them of rank treason?
Not all, however, were satisfied; I heard old Hickman whisper some
strange words to his comrade, as he glanced significantly towards the
estrays.
"Keep yur eye skinned, Jim, and watch the skunks well; thares somethin'
not hulsome about 'em."
As there was no one who could openly accuse them, they were once more
admitted into the ranks, and were now among those who were stretched out
and sleeping.
They lay close to the edge of the water. In my rounds, I passed them
repeatedly; and in the sombre darkness, I could just distinguish their
prostrate forms. I regarded them with strange emotions, for I shared
the suspicions of Hickman and Weatherford. I could scarce doubt that
these fellows had strayed off on purpose--that, actuated by some foul
motive, they had fired their guns to warn the Indians of the approach of
our party.
After midnight there was a moon. There were no clouds to intercept her
beams, and on rising above the tree-tops, she poured down a flood of
brilliant light.
The sleepers were awakened by the sudden change; some rose to their
feet, believing it to be day. It was only upon glancing up to the
heavens they became aware of their mistake.
The noise had put every one on the alert, and some talked of continuing
the pursuit by the light of the moon.
Such a course would have coincided with my own wishes; but the
hunter-guides opposed it. Their reasons were just. In open ground they
could have lifted the trail, but under the timber the moon's light would
not have availed them.
They could have tracked by torch-light, but this would only be to expose
us to an ambuscade of the enemy. Even to advance by moonlight would be
to subject ourselves to a like danger. Circumstances had changed. The
savages now knew we were after them. In a night-march the pursued have
the advantage of the pursuers--even though their numbers be inferior.
The darkness gives them every facility of effecting a surprise.
Thus reasoned the guides. No one made opposition to their views, and it
was agreed that we should keep our ground till daylight.
It was time to change the sentinels. Those who had slept now took post,
and the relieved guard came in and flung themselves down, to snatch a
few hours of rest.
Williams and Spence took their turn with the rest. They were posted on
one side the glade, and next to one another Hickman and Weatherford had
fulfilled their guard tour.
As they stretched themselves along the grass, I noticed that they had
chosen a spot near to where the suspected men were placed. By the
moonlight, they must have had a view of the latter.
Notwithstanding their recumbent attitudes, the hunters did not appear to
go to sleep. I observed them at intervals. Their heads were close
together, and slightly raised above the ground, as if they were
whispering to one another.
As before, I walked round and round--the moonlight enabling me to move
more rapidly. Ofttimes did I make the circuit of the little pond--how
oft, it would be difficult to determine.
My steps were mechanical--my thoughts had no connection with the
physical exertions I was making, and I took no note of how I progressed.
After a time there came a lull over my spirits. For a short interval
both my griefs and vengeful passions seemed to have departed.
I knew the cause. It was a mere psychological phenomenon--one of common
occurrence. The nerves that were organs of the peculiar emotions under
which I had been suffering, had grown wearied and refused to act. I
knew it was but a temporary calm--the lull between two billows of the
storm.
During its continuance, I was sensible to impressions from external
objects. I could not help noticing the singularity of the scene around
me. The bright moonlight enabled me to note its features somewhat
minutely.
We were encamped upon what, by backwoodsmen, is technically termed a
_glade_--oftener, in their idiom, a "gleed"--a small opening in the
woods, without timber or trees of any sort. This one was circular--
about fifty yards in diameter--with the peculiarity of having a pond in
its midst. The pond, which was only a few yards in circumference, was
also a circle, perfectly concentric with the glade itself. It was one
of those singular natural basins found throughout the peninsula, and
appearing as if scooped out by mechanic art. It was deeply sunk in the
earth, and filled with water till within three feet of its rim. The
liquid was cool and clear, and under the moonbeams shone with a silvery
effulgence.
Of the glade itself nothing more--except that it was covered with
sweet-smelling flowers, that now, crushed under the hoofs of horses and
the heels of man, gave forth a redoubled fragrance.
The picture was pretty.
Under happier circumstances, I should have contemplated it with
pleasure. But it was not the picture that so much occupied my attention
at that moment. Rather was it the framing.
Around the glade stood a ring of tall trees, as regular as if they had
been planted; and beyond these, as far as the eye could penetrate the
depths of the forest, were others of like size and aspect. The trunks
of all were nearly of one thickness--few of them reaching a diameter of
two feet, but all rising to the height of many yards, without leaf or
branch. They stood somewhat densely over the ground, but in daylight
the eye might have ranged to a considerable distance through the
intervals, for there was no underwood--save the low dwarf palmetto--to
interrupt the view. They were straight, and almost cylindrical as
palms; and they might have been mistaken for trees of this order, had it
not been for their large heads of leaves terminating in cone-shaped
summits.
They were not palms--they were pines--"broom" pines [_Pinus Australis_],
a species of trees with which I was perfectly familiar, having ridden
many hundreds of miles shaded by the pendant fascicles of their acicular
foliage.
The sight of these trees, therefore, would have created no curiosity,
had I not noticed in their appearance something peculiar. Instead of
the deep green which should have been exhibited by their long, drooping
leaves, they appeared of a brownish yellow.
Was it fancy? or was it the deceptive light of the moon that caused this
apparent change from their natural hue?
One or the other, soliloquised I, on first noticing them; but as I
continued to gaze, I perceived that I was in error. Neither my own
fancy nor the moon's rays were at fault; the foliage was really of the
colour it appeared to be. Drawing nearer to them, I observed that the
leaves were withered, though still adhering to the twigs. I noticed,
moreover, that the trunks were dry and dead-like--the bark scaled or
scaling off--that the trees, in short, were dead and decaying.
I remembered what Hickman had stated while groping for the direction.
That was at some distance off; but, as far as I could see, the woods
presented the same dim colour.