came or should pass, and he crouched lower in the undergrowth with his
hand on the hammer and trigger of his rifle. He did not stir or make any
noise for a long time. The forest, too, was silent. The wind that had
ruffled the surface of the lake ceased, and the leaves over his head
were still.

But he understood too well the ways of the wilderness to move yet. He
did not believe that his faculties, attuned to the slightest alarm, had
deceived him, and he had learned the patience of the Indian from the
Iroquois themselves. His eyes continually pierced the thickets for a
hostile object moving there, and his ears were ready to notice the sound
of a leaf should it fall.

He heard, or thought he heard after a while, a slight sliding motion,
like that which a great serpent would make as it drew its glistening
coils through leaves or grass. But it was impossible for him to tell how
near it was to him or from what point it came, and his blood became
chill in his veins. He was not afraid of a danger seen, but when it came
intangible and invisible the boldest might shudder.

The noise, real or imaginary, ceased, and as he waited he became
convinced that it was only his strained fancy. A man might mistake the
blood pounding in his ears or the beat of his own pulse for a sound
without, and after another five minutes, taking the rifle from the
hollow of his arm, he stood upright. Certainly nothing was moving in the
forest. The leaves hung lifeless. His fancies had been foolish.

He stepped boldly from the undergrowth in which he had knelt, and a
glimpse of a flitting shadow made him kneel again. It was instinct that
caused him to drop down so quickly, but he knew that it had saved his