Both feet now rested upon the muddy
bottom, and he stood there clear of the boat.
The chief did not stop again, and as the fire had burned higher,
his features were disclosed more plainly in his restless walk
back and forth before the flames. Henry took a final look at the
lofty features, contracted now into a frown, then began to wade
among the bushes, pushing his way softly. This was the most
delicate and difficult task of all. The water must not be
allowed to plash around him nor the bushes to rustle as he
passed. Forward he went a yard, then two, five, ten, and his
feet were about to rest upon solid earth, when a stick submerged
in the mud broke under his moccasin with a snap singularly loud
in the silence of the night.
Henry sprang at once upon dry land, whence he cast back a single
swift glance. He saw the chief standing rigid and gazing in the
direction from which the sound had come. Other warriors were
just behind him, following his look, aware that there was an
unexpected presence in the forest, and resolved to know its
nature.
Henry ran northward. So confident was he in his powers and the
protecting darkness of the night that he sent back a sharp cry,
piercing and defiant, a cry of a quality that could come only
from a white throat.
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