There was no window, and where the door had once been there had grown a tree a foot in diameter, almost closing the narrow aperture through which the mysterious inhabitants had passed years before.

A dozen paces, five paces from this door, and Mukoki's hand reached out and laid itself gently upon Wabi's shoulder.

Rod saw the movement and stopped.

A strange look had come into the old Indian's face, an expression in which there was incredulity and astonishment, as if he believed and yet doubted what his eyes beheld.

Mutely he pointed to the tree growing before the door, and to the reddish, crumbling rot into which the logs had been turned by the passing of generations.
"Red pine," he said at last.