For a long time the silent party pushed forward. They were soon clear of the forest, passing through rich wild meadows that lifted the scent of clover, the fresher for the dew that lay wet underfoot. There were other thickets and other forests, and many a reach of meadow, all rolling up and down over the gentle hills. Menard tried to gather his wits, but his head reeled; and the struggle to keep his feet moving steadily onward was enough to hold his mind. He knew that he should watch the trail closely, to know where they were taking him, but he was not equal to the effort. At last the dawn came, gray and depressing, creeping with deadly slowness on the trail of the retreating night. The sky was dull and heavy, and a mist clung about the party, leaving little beads of moisture on deerskin coats and fringed leggings and long, brown musket barrels. The branches drooped from the trees, blurred by the mist and the half dark into strange shapes along the trail.
The day was broad awake when Menard gave way. His muscles had been tried to the limit of his endurance during these many desperate days and sleepless nights that he had thought to be over. He fell loosely forward. For a space they dragged him, but the burden was heavy, and the chief ordered a rest. The band of warriors scattered about to sleep under the trees, leaving a young brave to watch the Big Buffalo, who slept motionless where they had dropped him in the long grass close at hand. On every side were hills, shielding them from the view of any chance straggler from the Onondaga villages, unless he should clamber down the short slopes and search for them in the mist. A stream tumbled by, not a dozen yards from Menard and his yawning guardian.
When he awoke, the mist had thinned, but the sky showed no blue. Beneath the gray stretch that reached from hill crest to hill crest, light foaming clouds scudded across from east to west, though there was little wind near the ground. The Captain listened for a time to the noise of the stream before looking about. He changed his position, and rheumatic pains shot through his joints. For the second time in his life he realized that he was growing old; and with this thought came another. What sort of a soldier was he if he could not pass through such an experience without paying the old man's penalty. To be sure his head was battered and bruised, and scattered over his shoulders and arms and hips were a dozen small wounds to draw in the damp from the grass, but he did not think of these. In his weak, half-awake state, he was discouraged, with the feeling that the best of his life was past. And the thought that he, a worn old soldier, could have dreamed what he had dreamed of the maid and her love sank down on his heart like a weight. But this thought served another purpose: to think of the maid was to think of her danger; and this was to be the alert soldier again, with a plan for every difficulty as long as he had life in his body. And so, before the mood could drag him down, he was himself again.