“No far from here—best stop.”

I submitted, in all things, to the directions of my Indian guide. The latter had selected the dark shadows of two or three young pines for our cover, where, by getting within their low branches, we were completely concealed from any eye that was distant from us eight or ten feet. No sooner were we thus posted, than the Onondago pointed to the trunk of a fallen tree, and we took our seats silently on it. I observed that my companion kept his thumb on the cock of his rifle, while his fore-finger was passed around the trigger. It is scarcely necessary to say that I observed the same precaution.

“This good,” said Susquesus, in a voice so low and soft that it could not attract more attention than a whisper; “this very good—hear him ag'in, soon; then know.”

A stifled groan was heard, and that almost as soon as my companion ceased to speak. I felt my blood curdle at these frightful evidences of human suffering; and an impulse of humanity caused me to move, as if about to rise. The hand of Trackless checked the imprudence.

“No good,” he said, sternly. “Sit still. Warrior know how to sit still.”

“But, Heavenly Providence! There is some one in agony, quite near us, man. Did you not hear a groan Trackless?”

“To be sure, hear him.—What of that? Pain make groan come, alway, from pale-face.”

“You think, then, it is a white-man who suffers? if so, it must be one of our party, as there is no one else near us. If I hear it again, I must go to his relief, Onondago.”

“Why you behave like squaw? What of little groan? Sartain, he pale-face; Injin never groan on war-path. Why he groan, you t'ink? Cause Huron meet him. That reason he groan. You groan, too, no sit still. Injin know time to shoot—know time not to shoot.”

I had every disposition to call aloud, to inquire who needed succour; yet the admonitions of my companion, aided as they, were by the gloomy mysteries of that vast forest, in the hour of deepest night, enabled me to command the impulse. Three times, notwithstanding, was that groan repeated; and, as it appeared to me, each time more and more faintly. I thought, too, when all was still in the forest—when we sat ourselves in breathless expectation of what might next reach our ears—attentive to each sighing of the night-air, and distrustful even of the rustling leaf—that the last groan of all, though certainly the faintest of any we had heard, was much the nearest. Once, indeed, I heard, or fancied I heard, the word 'water,' murmured in a low, smothered tone, almost in my ear. I thought, too, I knew the voice; that it was familiar to me; though I could not decide, in the state of my feelings, exactly to whom, it belonged.