“And your wife, is she living?”
“Hemlock does not lay his heart open to the stranger; he is alone in the world.”
Respecting his reserve, and tho’ curious to know if the guardian-spirit of the chasm had spoken to him in his dreams, Morton changed the subject, the more so as he did not wish his companion to know that he had been the unwitting witness of his invocation ceremonial. He asked about the chasm in whose solemn depths they found shelter, and Hemlock told how it had been known to all the seven nations of the Iroquois and regarded by them as a chosen abode of the spirits, the more so as its origin was supernatural. There had been a very rainy season and the beavers had their villages flooded and were in danger of being destroyed. Two of them volunteered to visit the spirit-land and beseech the help of their oki, which he promised. He came one dark night and with a single flap of his tail smote the rock, splitting it in two and allowing the waters to drain into the low country beneath. Morton listened gravely, seeing his companion spoke in all seriousness, and thought the tale might be an Indian version of the earthquake, or other convulsion of nature, by which the bed of sandstone had been rent asunder, and a channel thus afforded for the surplus waters of the adjoining heights. The trees and bushes which had found an airy foothold in crevices, and the weather-beaten and lichened faces of the cliffs, told how remote that time must have been.
It was wearing on to noon before Hemlock considered it safe to move. The delay they spent in cleaning their arms, and Morton, to his regret, found that his powder was useless from being wet. The Indian, more provident, had saved some in a water-proof pouch of otter skin, but he had too little to do more than lend a single charge for his gun. Morton took the opportunity to clean and arrange his uniform as he best could and when ready to move felt he looked more as became an officer of the King’s army than when he awoke. Hemlock led the way to where a cleft in the wall of rocks afforded a possibility of ascent, and, with the occasional aid of his outstretched arm, Morton managed to reach the summit. When he had, he perceived he stood on a plain of table-rock, the cleavage of which formed the chasm, of whose existence the explorer could have no intimation until he reached its brink. They had not gone far, until Hemlock halted and looked intently at the ground. “A party of Yankees have passed here within an hour; a dozen or more of them. See the trail of their muskets!”
“How do you know they have just passed?”
“The dew has not been dry here over an hour and they passed when it was gone. They are searching for us, for one went to that bush there to see no one was hiding.”
Morton looked perplexed, for nothing was more distasteful than to be taken prisoner. “Had we not,” he suggested, “better return to the chasm and wait for night?”
“It is too late,” replied Hemlock, “when they come back they would see our trail and follow it. We will have to go on and if we get across the road we are safe,” and without another word he went on until the road was reached. On scanning it, before making a dash across, they perceived, to their dismay, a mounted sentry so posted as to give a clear view of the portion of the road they were standing by. Hemlock gave a grunt of disappointment and returned into the bush and after a few minutes’ rapid walking turned to Morton with the words, “You stay here, until I go and see the road. Over there is the track of a short-cut between Four Corners and the blockhouse, so if Yankees pass they will keep to it and not see you. Do not leave until I come back.”