GROUND.
The whites on the flat-boat had committed a mistake natural to persons in their situation.
As they waited along shore, in the most painful suspense, the hours wore slowly away, and seemed double their usual length. Thus it happened that at the moment of sweeping out into the current, each believed it to be about three o'clock in the morning, and were looking for the appearance of the moon, when, in reality, it was barely midnight.
Waring and Pat experienced some peculiar sensations, as they toiled at the oar. Knowing that one Indian, at least, had discovered their hiding-place, they had every reason to believe that a whole war-party were aware of it, and so long as the shadowy outline of the shore was discernible, they were in constant expectation of receiving a volley from their invisible foes.
But, as the dark mass of trees blended with the night, and at length faded from their view altogether, they ceased their efforts, and breathed freer.
"Now," said Waring, "I don't care how soon the moon shows itself. With all the windings and islands, we need light to see the way."
"If you have no objection, I should like to inquire how soon do you expect the moon to rise?"
"Why, right away—that is, within a few minutes."
"So it seems it ought to do: but, Waring, don't you know how much longer time seems to persons in our circumstances, than it does as other times. I know when I used to court Jemima Hopkins, after ten o'clock, the hour didn't seem more than ten minutes long; and then again, when I had to sit up in the winter, and keep the wolves out of the sheep-pen, every hour seemed a month long. Now, Waring, I don't want to hurt your feelings—it may be three o'clock in the morning, but I don't believe it."
"I know how apt we are to miscalculate time on such occasions, and I have tried to make allowance for it. With all that allowance made, it strikes me that the moon must be in the horizon by this time."