The enemy had driven him on his errand at double speed. He felt that he
could spare a little time now, while he waited to see what the pursuit
would do.
His feeling of exultation was now unalloyed. Deep in the forest with
his foes looking for him in vain, the spirit of Henry Ware was once
more strong within him. He was the reincarnation of the great hunter.
He lay so still, clasping the shotgun, that the little creatures of the
woods were deceived. A squirrel ran up the trunk of an oak six feet away,
and stood fearlessly in a fork with his bushy tail curved over his back.
A small gray bird perched on a bough just over Harry's head and poured
out a volume of song. Farther away sounded the tap tap of a woodpecker
on the bark of a dead tree.
Harry, although he did not move, was watching and listening with intense
concentration, but his ears now would be his surest signals. He could
not see deep in the thickets, but he could hear any movement in the
underbrush a hundred yards away. So far there was nothing but the
hopping of a rabbit. The bird over his head sang on. There was no
wind among the branches, not even the flutter of leaves to distract his
attention from anything that might come on the ground.
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