The sound that fell upon the spy’s ears came from the group of silver maples near the water, and as Morgan turned his eyes thitherward he beheld a momentary glitter among the white leaves.
“That groan was not feigned; it came from a person sorely wounded, and that person is a white man, for he said, ‘Oh, my God!’ An Indian never says that; he dies in silence; he never groans.”
Satisfied that but one person, and that a wounded man, occupied the maple grove, the scout approached the grove and paused among the outer trees.
All was silent.
Then he crept forward with drawn knife.
On, on, still on, to the center of the maples, yet encountering no one!
“Could I have been deceived?” he asked himself, over and over. “I was willing to swear a minute since that I heard a groan in these maples; but now—”
“Christ, give me strength!”
Mark Morgan came to an abrupt halt. Scarce ten steps from him lay the speaker.
His gilt buttons scintillated in the rays of the new moon, and his scarlet uniform looked as pale as the face that the spy saw through the trees.