Never before had the silent, brooding forest witnessed a like
gathering, nor its dark mysterious depths re-echoed with such
unfamiliar sounds. But that camp-fire scene was merely a prelude to
the tide of progress already setting, when unnamed rivers, hidden
lakes, crouching valleys, lofty hills, and secret woodland depths would
know those sounds, and rejoice in the knowledge.

An hour later silence reigned over the camp in the wilderness, broken
only by the occasional hoot of an owl, or the light steps of some
little forest creature.

About midnight the moon rose beyond the eastern hills, and rode high
above the Isle of Vines. It cast its bright beams across the now
placid water, and stole on furtive foot into the camping ground of the
weary sleepers. As the river and shore thus became illuminated, a tall
Indian stepped out from the darkness of the forest, and stood for a few
minutes gazing upon the ghost-like tents. In one hand he carried a
heavy flint-lock, and in the other a string of fine trout, while across
his right shoulder hung a long bow and several arrows. He was not at
all surprised at the sight before him, as he had been lurking near all
the evening, watching with intense interest the group about the
camp-fire. His attention now, however, was fixed upon the tent where
Jean and Old Mammy were sleeping, and the Colonel's form wrapped in his
blankets just outside.

At length he placed his gun and fish upon the ground, unslung the bow
from his back, and fitted an arrow to its place. Then the bow-string
twanged, and the arrow hurtled through the air, and sank deep into a
great pine tree a few feet from where the Colonel was lying. For