Colonel O’Neill’s face grew red and white by turns with rage.
He looked at the writing until the letters swam before his eyes.
His prey had escaped, and he swore roundly for several minutes before a gentlemanly word passed his lips.
“Murphy,” he said, his anger slumbering but not appeased. “Murphy, you, with two men, will await the arrival of the command at this point, and will proceed with it to the destination communicated by me to Gosnoke.”
“Pray, where does our colonel go?” asked Murphy, who ventured because he was on familiar terms with O’Neill.
“I’m going after Funk. By heavens! that scoundrel shall not escape me. He’s abandoned the boats somewhere up the river, and taken to the forest trails. But how did he know that we were waiting here?”
“Ah! that puzzles the b’hoys, kurnel,” said an Irish soldier. “Faith an’ they must hev smelt us, fur devil a noise did we make among the trees.”
“Some dastardly red-skin has betrayed us, Teddy,” said O’Neill, coloring again. “Now, Murphy, mind what I have told you. The trail they would take, I think, leads in a north-westerly direction to the lake shore. It can be reached by marching due west from this point; but I am not acquainted with the forest hereabout.”
“Methinks, I can lead you to the trail,” said a man who, though clad in English uniform, was no soldier. “I’ve tramped these parts several times. By good marching, we can reach the falls of Beaver river by eleven. There we will strike the Detroit trail and discover something of Roy Funk.”
The Briton was pleased, and a few minutes later disappeared with his men in the funereal recesses of the wood.