Ignorant of the absence of Mr. Prevost and Edith, and well aware how rapidly the flame extended when once kindled in a wood, after a long season of dry weather, Walter's heart sank as he gazed. But he lost no time in useless hesitation. The sun was already setting; the distance was still considerable, and he resolved at once to break through the fiery circle if it were possible and reach his home at once. Onward he plunged then, down the side of the hill, and the moment he descended the whole scene was shut out from his sight so completely that but for the strong and increasing smell of burning pine wood, and a feeling of unnatural warmth, he would have had no intimation that a fire was raging close at hand. As he came nearer and nearer, however, a certain rushing sound met his ear, something like that of a heavy gale of wind sweeping the forest, and the smoke became suffocating, while through the branches and stems of the trees a red light shone, especially toward the south and west, showing where the fire raged with the greatest fierceness.
Breathing thick and fast, he hurried on, lighted by the flames alone, for the sun had sunk by this time, and the dense cloud of smoke which hung over this part of the wood shut out every star, till at length he reached the very verge of the conflagration. Some hundreds of acres lay before him, with trees, some fallen one over the other, some still standing, but deprived of foliage, masses of brushwood and long trailing vines, all glowing with intense heat. He felt that to proceed in that direction was death. He could hardly draw his breath; his face felt scorched and burning, and yet the drops of perspiration rolled heavily from his forehead.
Retreating a little to escape the heat, he turned his steps northward; but by that time he had lost the trail, and he was forcing his way through the brushwood, encumbered by his rifle and knapsack, when suddenly, by the light of the fire shining through the trees, he saw a dark figure, some twenty or thirty yards before him, waving to him eagerly, and apparently calling to him, also. The roar and crackling of the burning wood was too loud for any other sounds to be heard, but the gestures of the figure seemed to direct him toward the south again, and obeying the signs, he soon found himself once more upon an Indian trail. The next instant the figure he had seen was upon the same path, and a little nearer; but it was that of an Indian, and in the smoky light Walter Prevost could not distinguish his tribe or nation. He advanced cautiously then, with his thumb upon the cock of the rifle; but as soon as he was within hearing the man called to him in the Oneida tongue, and in a friendly tone telling him to follow, and warning him that death lay to the westward.
Thrown off his guard by such signs of interest, the lad advanced with a quick step, and was soon close to his guide, though the man walked fast.
"Is the house burnt, brother?" asked the youth, eagerly.
"What, the lodge of the paleface?" said the Indian. "No; it stands fast."
"Thank God for that!" said Walter Prevost, in English; but the words had hardly passed his lips when he suddenly felt his arms seized from behind, his rifle was wrested from his hands, and he himself cast backward on the ground.
Two savage faces glared above him, and he expected to see the gleam of the deadly tomahawk the next instant.
"What now!" he exclaimed in Oneida. "Am I not your brother? Am I not the son of the Black Eagle, and a friend of the children of the Stone?"
There was no answer, but in dead silence the Indians proceeded with rapid hands to bind his arms with thongs of deerskin, and then, raising him on his feet, forced him to retrace his steps along the very trail which had brought him thither.