This, however, was of little or no help, since the abundance of leaves prevented its rays piercing between and lighting up the ground beneath.
It would be hard to imagine a more gloomy occupation than that of Ben Ripley while engaged with this duty.

The solemn murmur of the vast woods around him, the world of darkness in which he slowly paced to and fro, the memory of the sad scenes he had seen in the lovely Wyoming Valley, the certainty that a good many miles must yet be traversed before they could sit down in safety, the consciousness that several of the cruel red men were near them, and the belief that they would start in pursuit as soon as it was light--all this oppressed him with crushing weight, and made him feel at times as if there was no escape for him and his loved ones.
"There is only one way of hiding our trail," he mused.

"If we could come upon some river or large stream of water, where there was a boat, or we could make a raft, we should be safe.

A big rainstorm would do as well, for it would wash out all signs of our footprints." He paused in his walk and peeped up at a speck of sky shown through a rift among the limbs.
"There is hardly a cloud; it looks as if it wouldn't rain for a week, and I don't know of any river between here and the Delaware." His senses were never more alert.

He avoided the fatal mistake of sitting down for a few minutes, or so much as leaning against a tree to rest.