is well begun,” replied the Pegan grimly. “Farewell, Noawama! God watch over you.”
“Farewell, Pikot. We shall meet again in two days!”
“Be it so. Come, Memecho.”
With a last glance toward the Indians in the starlight gloom of the forest, David turned and sought the trail. Slowly he went at first, for, despite his protestation to Pikot, his limbs were still unequal to their task. As the Indian had promised, his way crossed a small brook but a few rods beyond and the boy knelt and let the water dwell gratefully in his mouth, but, heeding Pikot’s warning, took but a swallow of it ere he arose and went on again. The path was ill-defined in the darkness and was seemingly little used, but only once did he wander from it and then speedily found it again. And so, his strength growing each moment, he came at last to the pond he sought.
It was small, and he had soon reached the upper end of it, from which led a quiet, meandering stream. On the western bank, a rude trail followed the brook on its northward flow. There was little water between the low banks, for the summer had been
