It was the most splendid
type of white life in all the wilderness that fled, and the
finest type of red life that followed.
It was impossible for Henry to feel anger or hate toward
Timmendiquas. In his place he would have done what he was doing.
It was hard to give up these great woods and beautiful lakes and
rivers, and the wild life that wild men lived and loved. There
was so much chivalry in the boy's nature that he could think of
all these things while he fled to escape the tomahawk or the
stake.
Up came the sun. The gray light turned to silver, and then to
red and blazing gold. A long, swelling note, the triumphant cry
of the pursuing warriors, rose behind him. Henry turned his head
for one look. He saw a group of them poised for a moment on the
crest of a low hill and outlined against the broad flame in the
east. He saw their scalp locks, the rifles in their hands, and
their bare chests shining bronze in the glow. Once more he sent
back his defiant cry, now in answer to theirs, and then, calling
upon his reserves of strength and endurance, fled with a speed
that none of the warriors had ever seen surpassed.
Henry's flight lasted all that day, and he used every device to
evade the pursuit, swinging by vines, walking along fallen logs,
and wading in brooks.
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