THE RITE OF THE HIDDEN CHILDREN My Indians and I stood watching our riflemen as they swung to the east and trotted out of sight among the trees.

Then, at a curt nod from me, the Indians lengthened their line, extending it westward along the height of land, and so spreading out that they entirely commanded the only outlet to the swamp below, by encircling both the trail and the headwaters of the evil-looking little stream.
Through the unbroken thatch of matted foliage overhead no faintest ray of sunlight filtered--not even where the stream coiled its slimy way among the tamaracks and spruces.

But south of us, along the ascending trail by which we had come, the westering sun glowed red across a ledge of rock, from which the hill fell sheer away, plunging into profound green depths, where unseen waters flowed southward to the Susquehanna.
Around the massive elbow of this ledge, our back-trail, ascending into view, curved under shouldering boulders.

Blueberry scrub, already turning gold and crimson, grew sparsely on the crag--cover enough for any watcher of the trail.

And thither I crept and stretched me out flat in the bushes, where I could see the trail we had lately traversed, and look along it far to our rear as clearly as one sees through a dim and pillared corridor.
West of me, a purplish ridge ran north, the sun shining low through a pine-clad notch.