The fugitives resumed their painfully laborious flight, and finally reached the river bank, rejoiced enough that, as yet, their enemies had learned nothing of their whereabouts. Here, underneath the almost impervious undergrowth, they felt more at ease than they had since they had been joined by Waring.
"What time might it be?" asked the Irishman.
"Near the middle of the afternoon—if not later."
"We'll stay here then until night. What say ye?"
The proposal of Pat Mulroony coincided with what Waring deemed best for the party, and accordingly, it was determined to remain in their present position until night closed around them.
The few hours that yet remained ere the protecting darkness could come, were hours of the most painful suspense to the fugitives. Neither of them hardly dared to stir from his hiding-place, and when they conversed, it was only in the whispered words of fear.
It may well be a question, whether the Shawanoes were really searching for the whites, for it seemed barely possible that if such were the case, they could have helped finding the trail. It was more probable that the Indians had moved to this portion of the wood, and, those of their number who had been seen, were only wandering hither and thither, without any ostensible object.
Be that as it may, the sun was still in the heavens, when the sharp ears of Virginia Lander caught the sound of a footstep near them. Touching Waring on the shoulder, she communicated the startling fact to him, and he admonished the Irishman to maintain a strict silence.
It was soon evident that an Indian was close at hand, and that he was between the fugitives and the river—a position in which it was barely possible for him to pass them, without both parties discovering each other. It was manifest too, from the carelessness with which he was proceeding, that he had no suspicion of the proximity of the whites.