Henry started up from his vision. The song was gone, and he
heard only the wind softly moving the leaves. It had been vague
and shadowy as gossamer, light as the substance of a dream, but
it was real to him, nevertheless, and the deep glow of certain
triumph permeated his being, body and mind. It was not strange
that he had in his nature something of the Indian mysticism that
personified the winds and the trees and everything about him.
The Manitou of the red man and the ancient Aieroski of the
Iroquois were the same as his own God. He could not doubt that
he had a message. Down on the Ohio he had had the same message
more than once, and it had always come true.
He heard a slight rustling among the bushes, and, sitting
perfectly still, he saw a black bear emerge into the open. It
had gained the islet in some manner, probably floundering through
the black mire, and the thought occurred to him that it was the
mate of the one he had slain, drawn perhaps by instinct on the
trail of a lost comrade. He could have shot the bear as he
sat-and he would need fresh supplies of food soon-but he did not
have the heart to do it.
The bear sniffed a little at the wind, which was blowing the
human odor away from him, and sat back on his haunches.
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