"Hark!" interrupted Corlaer, hand upraised.
From inland came the crashing noise made by a heavy body moving carelessly through the undergrowth, the mutter of a voice unrestrained. We snatched up our rifles and ran to cover. It was useless to think of flight on the raft. An enemy could riddle us as we strove to force its unwieldy bulk out into the stream. No, our only chance was to stand to it, conscious that we had our backs to the river and therefore could not be surrounded. Perhaps night would furnish an opportunity for us to escape by dropping down with the current—if we were not overwhelmed by numbers before that. Only a strong force, unafraid, would crash towards us in that reckless way. It was like white men, not Indians. The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I rolled over beside Tawannears.
"Is it the French, brother?" I asked.
"We shall soon see," he answered grimly. "Someone is walking there between the trees—to your right."
CHAPTER VI
WE CROSS THE GREAT RIVER
A dark object showed in the sun-flecked greenery of the woods. Tawannears thrust forward his musket, and sighted along the barrel.
"He is alone," murmured Peter.
"Then there will be none to tell his story," remarked Tawannears grimly. "But Corlaer must not be too sure. He may be the bait to a trap."
The strange figure strode into an opening bathed in the warm sunlight, and I had a brief vision of a fluttering black habit and a white blob of a face.