“I have done,” said Roger, and he threw himself back on the ground with a gesture of despair.
“Nay, but, Roger, we shall not be wholly parted; you will come out to my wigwam in the hunting season, and we shall be together. You are no stranger to the tribe I am about to join; you will be always welcome.”
“Not if war break out and we are on opposite sides,” said Roger.
“Listen,” said Charles; “I have something to tell you, which I will confide only to you,” and drawing closer still he whispered into Roger’s ear, and for a time they conversed in low voices together.
“Wrong can never be right,” said the latter at last. “The Indians are a treacherous race. If you offend them, mark my word, they will be revenged. Now let us sleep; it will soon be morning;” and side by side, with their hands clasped in each other’s, as they were wont to lie when boys, they fell asleep.
The day was just dawning, and the soft hazy light of early morn was creeping over the land, when suddenly and simultaneously they awoke. They cast one questioning look at each other, and sprang to their feet.
Paddling slowly down the river which ran below were some fifty canoes, filled with Indians in their most gorgeous array, uttering, as they moved slowly on, loud cries of delight, and gesticulating wildly.
“They have come for me,” said Charles, his voice quivering with the multitude of his emotions.
Do we ever take a decisive step in life without a momentary hesitation—a backward glance of regret at the past we are leaving behind, and an instinctive fear of the unknown future?
Roger saw it, and a wild hope flashed through his heart. “There is yet time to hold back!” he said, in a low, eager voice, laying his hand on his friend’s arm, as if to detain him.