He noticed after a while that fleecy vapor was floating before
the moon. The night seemed to be darkening, and a rising wind
came out of the southwest. The touch of the air on, his face
was damp. It was the token of rain, and he felt that it would
not be delayed long.

It was no part of his plan to be caught in a storm on the
Monongahela. Besides the discomfort, heavy rain and wind might
sink his frail canoe, and he looked for a refuge. The river was
widening again, and the banks sank down until they were but
little above the water. Presently he saw a place that he knew
would be suitable, a stretch of thick bushes and weeds growing
into the very edge of the water, and extending a hundred yards or
more along the shore.

He pushed his canoe far into the undergrowth, and then stopped it
in shelter so close that, keen as his own eyes were, he could
scarcely see the main stream of the river. The water where he
came to rest was not more than a foot deep, but he remained in
the canoe, half reclining and wrapping closely around himself and
his rifle a beautiful blanket woven of the tightest fiber.

His position, with his head resting on the edge of the canoe and
his shoulder pressed against the side, was full of comfort to
him, and he awaited calmly whatever might come. Here and there
were little spaces among the leaves overhead, and through them he
saw a moon, now almost hidden by thick and rolling vapors, and a
sky that had grown dark and somber. The last timid star had
ceased to twinkle, and the rising wind was wet and cold. He was