The Mohican came quietly toward me and sat down to watch the Susquehanna, his rifle across his knees.

As for me, I dared not sit, much less lie flat, for fear sleep would overpower me.

So I leaned against a rock, resting heavily on my rifle, and strained my sleepy eyes toward the invisible Ouleout.

A level stream of mist, slowly whitening, marked its course; and "The Voice that Continues" sounded dreamily among the trees that bordered its shallow flood of crystal.
Toward sunrise I caught the first glimmer of water; in fact, so near was I that I could hear the feeding trout splashing along the reaches, and the deer, one by one, retreating from the shore.
Birds that haunt woodland edges were singing, spite of their moulting fever; and I heard the Scarlet Tanager, the sweet call of the Crimson Cardinal, the peeping of the Recollet chasing gnats above the water, the lovely, linked notes of the White-throat trailing to a minor infinitely prolonged.
Greyer, greyer grew the woods; louder sang the birds; suddenly a dazzling shaft of pink struck the forest; the first shred of mist curled, detached itself, and floated slowly upward.

The sun had risen.
Against the blinding glory, looming gigantic in the mist, I saw the Sagamore, an awful apparition in his paint, turn to salute the rising sun.