They went on for half a mile farther, when Marco, seeing a glimmer through the trees, exclaimed that they were coming to some water.
"So it is," said Forester. "It looks like a pond or a river. If it is a river, we're lost."
They walked on a short distance farther, and then they began to hear the rippling of the water. In a few minutes, they were down upon the bank. It was a small river, flowing rapidly along, between banks overhung with bushes. Marco looked for a bridge, or for some place to cross, but they found none. In fact, the road did not go down to the water, but seemed to lose itself among the trees, before reaching the bank.
"This is not our road," said Forester. "We must go back."
"What road can this be?" asked Marco. "It seems to lead nowhere."
"I presume it is a logging road," replied Forester.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Marco. "Why, I suppose that those huts must have been a logging camp, where the men lived in the winter, when they came here to cut logs; and this is the road that they drew the logs by, down to the water. But this summer it has been neglected. They don't cut the logs in the summer."
"And what shall we do?" asked Marco.
"We must go back to the place where the road branched off," replied Forester.
"Or else go and stay in the huts all night," said Marco.