So saying, he departed in a north-easterly direction, towards the clump of willows where the canoe of Eagle's-Wing was concealed. This spot had been agreed upon as the rendezvous; and Ichabod walked rapidly, spurred on by the excitements of the day through which he had already passed, and by the hope of meeting all his friends once more in safety. For nearly a quarter of a mile, the shrieks of Guthrie could be heard, mingled with oaths and cries for help; but soon these sounds failed to reach his ears, and he was alone amidst the silence of the forest.
CHAPTER XVI.
"The bow has lost its wonted spring,
The arrow falters on the wing,
Nor carries ruin from the string,
To end their being and our woes."
FRENEAU.
The Tuscarora, after the departure of Ichabod, followed by Guthrie, cautiously crept towards the lodge in which he expected to find Ruth and Singing-Bird. This he was enabled to do in comparative safety, as he moved in a deep shadow; and his only danger consisted in the chance of meeting some straggling Seneca, or someone who might have been selected as a guard for this particular quarter. But, without interruption, he gained the side of the lodge, the entrance to which was upon the west; but he could not reach it without a momentary exposure of his person to the eyes of anyone who might chance to be looking in that direction. Arriving at this point, he paused, and began imitating the shrill whistle or screech of the tree-toad, which, it seems, had been agreed upon between him and Singing-Bird, as a signal of his presence, in any emergency like the present. To his surprise, he received no answer. Again he gave the signal, but no answer was returned. A cold shudder ran through that frame of the Tuscarora, as he feared that the prisoners had been removed, and that their enterprise must fail. But he was determined to realize his worst fears by an examination of the interior of this lodge. With this view, he advanced to the extreme point where his person could be obscured in the shadow—a distance of six or eight feet from the entrance. He darted forward, with an agility quickened by the mixture of hope and fear, and found himself within the lodge. It was empty. For a moment, the impassable nature of the savage was overpowered, and he gazed around him with a look of despair; and a shudder passed over him, that shook his strong frame as a leaf is shaken by the wind. But despair could not bring relief, and activity and courage only could retrieve the time that had been lost. Again he passed the entrance, and with the same caution retreated to the place where he had left his companion.
"They are gone!" he said.
"Gone?" exclaimed Ralph.
But at the same moment a yell was heard; and they beheld the Indians darting from the fire towards the spot where Ichabod had been confined. It was now too late; their only hope was in flight. A few moments was left them, ere the Senecas would be upon their track; for the savages would readily comprehend that the escaped prisoner would fly in the direction of the cottage. Ralph and Eagle's-Wing hesitated for a moment; the last hope of relief to the unfortunate prisoners seemed extinguished by this premature discovery of the flight of Ichabod. They darted into the forest, and rapidly ran in the direction of the rendezvous which had been agreed upon with their friend. Some little time elapsed, ere they discovered that they were pursued; but another, and wilder and fiercer yell from the Indians, denoted that some new discovery had taken place, which had excited them still more. Had Ichabod been again captured? That could not well be; as he had but a short time before left them; and they knew that he did not intend to return again to the lodges of the Senecas. A hope sprang to the heart of Ralph, that perhaps Ruth and Singing-Bird had also escaped; and that the Senecas had but just ascertained that these, the most prized of their prisoners, had fled. But the hope was too faint, too weak, to revive his drooping spirits.
They were now conscious that they were pursued, and that their pursuers could not be, at the most, more than a hundred rods behind them. It was yet half a mile to the rendezvous; but they were both inured to exercise; and they ran with an ease and freedom, that promised to keep at least that distance between them and their pursuers. After the cries of the Senecas which had first fallen upon their ears, had died in the silence, occasionally was heard a wild shriek behind them; but at length these entirely ceased. It was a chase of life and death—the silence of the forest was unbroken by any sound save that of its own music, answering to the gentle pressure of the wind; but they knew well that this silence was owing to the caution of their unrelenting enemies.
They arrived, panting at the rendezvous. Eagle's-Wing darted into the clump of willows, with the expectation of beholding Ichabod; but he was not there. What was now to be done? Should they remain here, or continue their flight towards the cottage? It was fully a mile distant; and yet, were they to be absent, should the Senecas again attack it, as they would be likely to do, in their present excitement, Barton and the negro would, perhaps, be unable to defend it; and they, too, would fall into the hands of the Senecas, from whom no mercy could now be expected. They must continue their flight; it was the only course. A few moments had been lost in this brief consultation; but the time lost had served to give them new energy for flight.