“I am a warrior,” declared the Hunter. “I will stay awake, and bring wood.”
What a night that was! A still, stinging, cold night, while amid the stillness the ice boomed, the floes ground upon each other in the current, the forest cracked, the wet wood of the fire hissed, and overhead the million stars glittered in the black sky.
Now and then they three sat at the fire, or standing turned about to baste their backs; and to keep awake. Gist told stories of bears and Indians, and Robert told of his bear and the Cherokee, and Washington told of his plantation and of things to be seen among the Long Knives of the American settlements. When anybody felt drowsy he was made to walk, and rub his hands and cheeks with snow, or fetch more wood; and sometimes they roamed over the island.
“There’s one advantage in this cold,” said Gist: “The Injuns aren’t likely to stir abroad before sun-up. But we may catch it if we’re found here by the Ottawas.”
“So you say,” replied Washington. “You forget another advantage. The cold may bridge the stream for us, and we’ll get off.”
He was always hopeful, that man Washington.
Robert wearily trudged out again, for more wood from the drift pile. When he reached the spot, he stared, surprised. There, in the star-light, a log upon which he had stood high and dry, the last time, was being lapped by water. Wah! He ran back with the bad news.
“Washington! River comes up!”
The two men exclaimed.
“What? No!” “You can see.”