"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.