"What do you mean? People travel on foot, horseback, or in a boat. We have moved about in one of those fashions twenty times before."
"You are right; but now we are constrained by circumstances to modify our mode of marching. We have no horses, no river, and our enemies hold the ground."
"In that case," the monk exclaimed with a grin, "we will imitate the birds, and fly through the air."
Red Cedar, looked at him earnestly.
"You have nearly guessed it," he said.
"What?" the monk remarked, "you are making fun of us, Red Cedar. Do you think this the proper moment for jesting?"
"I am not naturally inclined to jesting," the squatter coldly replied, "and at this moment less than ever. We shall not fly like the birds, because we have no wings; but for all that, we will make our journey in the air, in this way. Look around you; on the sides of the mountains extend immense virgin forests, in which our enemies are concealed. They are coming on quietly, carefully picking out every sign of our passing they can discover."
"Well?" the monk asked.
"While they are seeking our trail on the ground, we will slip through their hands like serpents, passing from tree to tree, from branch to branch, thirty yards above their heads, and they not dreaming of looking up, which would, indeed, be useless, for the foliage is too dense, the creepers too close for them to discover us. And then, again, this chance of safety, though very slight, is the only one left us. Have you the courage to try it?"
There was a momentary silence. At length the monk took the squatter's hand, and shook it heartily.