"I wonder how she is now?" I remarked. "I do hope she won't die."
"She must not die," said Drunkard. "She is the pearl of the woods. It makes me feel quite moonstruck to look at her. Hark! the owls are giving the latest bulletin from her. One just flew across from Old Woman's Islands."
We listened to the low-pitched deep-toned, "Whoo, hoo, hoo, hoo," coming from the nearby tree tops.
"Oh! that's good," exclaimed Drunkard. "The White Phantom is better, and has nibbled some maple tips from the hand of the soldier."
"Bless her," I said, "I scarcely know her, but it would grieve me if she died."
"Her eyes are like forest pools," said Drunkard. "Hist!—who goes there? Maybe it's your something."
We both listened. The night was solemnly quiet. It always takes me a little while to get used to the dead stillness of a backwoods night—so different from a night in the open farming country, where one can hear creatures calling to each other and enlivening the solitude.
Out of the great silence up the road came a faint pit-a-pat growing louder and louder.
"Human being," said Drunkard.
"I've got it!" I exclaimed. "I might have known. I'll wager anything it's that Russian coming to see my young master. Perhaps he'd like to coax him away from here. Let's go meet him, Drunkard. I wish we could drive him away. It would frighten the timid young Dallas to wake up and find that hairy creature bending over him."