Henry crept forward silently, bringing to his aid all the years
of skill that he had acquired in his life in the wilds. His body
was like that of a serpent, going forward, coil by coil. He was
near enough now to see the embers of the fire not yet quite dead,
the dark figures scattered about it, sleeping upon the grass with
the long ease of custom, and then the outline of the woman apart
from the others with the children about her. Henry now lay
entirely flat, and his motions were genuinely those of a serpent.
It was by a sort of contraction and relaxation of the body that
he moved himself, and his progress was absolutely soundless.
The object of his advance was the woman. He saw by the faint
light of the moon that she was not yet asleep. Her face, worn
and weather beaten, was upturned to the skies, and the stony look
of despair seemed to have settled there forever. She lay upon
some pine boughs, and her hands were tied behind her for the
night with deerskin.
Henry contorted himself on, inch by inch, for all the world like
a great snake. Now he passed the sleeping Senecas, hideous with
war paint, and came closer to the woman. She was not paying
attention to anything about her, but was merely looking up at the
pale, cold stars, as if everything in the world had ceased for
her.
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