Benee had no adventures to-day, but, seeing far off a band of travellers, he hid himself in the afternoon. For our Indian wanted no company.
He watched them as they came rapidly on towards his hiding-place, but they struck off to the east long before reaching it, and made for the plains and village far below.
Then Benee had his dinner and slept soundly enough till moonrise, for bracing and clear was heaven's ozonic breath in these almost Alpine regions.
Only a scimitar of a moon. Not more than three days old was it, yet somehow it gave hope and heart to the lonely traveller. He remembered when a boy he had been taught to look upon the moon as a good angel, but Christianity had banished superstition, and he was indeed a new man.
After once more refreshing himself, he started on his night march, hoping to put forty miles behind him ere the sun rose.
Low lay the white haze over the woods a sheer seven thousand feet beneath him.
It looked like snow-drifts on the darkling green.
Yet here and there, near to places where the river glistened in the young moon's rays were bunches of lights, and Benee knew he was not far from towns and civilization. Much too near to be agreeable.
He knew, however, that a few days more of his long weary march would bring him far away from these to regions unknown to the pale-face, to a land on which Christian feet had never trodden, a loveless land, a country that reeked with murder, a country that seemed unblessed by heaven, where all was moral darkness, as if indeed it were ruled by demons and fiends, who rejoiced only in the spilling of blood.
But, nevertheless, it was Benee's own land, and he could smile while he gazed upwards at the now descending moon.