He had chosen his course at the first leap. It was southward,
toward the lake, and he did not make the mistake of diverging
from his line, knowing that some part of the wide half circle of
his pursuers would profit by it.
Henry felt a great upward surge. He had been the victor in what
he meant to achieve, and he was sure that he would escape. The
cold wind, whistling by, whipped his blood and added new strength
to his great muscles. His ankles were not chafed or sore, and he
sped forward on the snowshoes, straight and true. Whenever he
came to a hill the pursuers would gain as he went up it, but when
he went down the other side it was he who gained. He passed
brooks, creeks, and once a small river, but they were frozen
over, many inches deep, and he did not notice them. Again it was
a lake a mile wide, but the smooth surface there merely increased
his speed. Always he kept a wary look ahead for thickets through
which he could not pass easily, and once he sent back a shout of
defiance, which the Iroquois answered with a yell of anger.
He was fully aware that any accident to his snowshoes would prove
fatal, the slipping of the thongs on his ankles or the breaking
of a runner would end his flight, and in a long chase such an
accident might happen.
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