CHAPTER XV

IN THE SOUTHWARD COUNTRY

ACROSS the brook the woods spread away to westward and to southward,--majestic oak trees, lulling pines, pale birches, besides the walnut and beech trees, and a host of others, the names of which Miles did not know. Thick though they stood in the forest, all were soundless now, and well-nigh motionless in the still air of morning. In all the wood the only active thing seemed the sunshine, which came sliding through the branches to mottle the turf or make the pine needles shiny.

An ardent sun it was too, even where it fell sparsely among the trees, and beyond the thickets, where the path led over unprotected hilltops, it beat fiercely through the breathless air till the heat fairly stifled the travellers. "Shall you go far before you build your house, Miles?" panted Dolly, when the roofs of the settlement were barely sunk from sight.

Miles explained that he held it best to push on to the river where he had gone eeling, so he might have plenty of fish in his dooryard. He thought to make his way directly to the place, but the journey through the heat seemed longer than when he tramped it in the springtime, and he could not find an easy path so adroitly as Squanto had found one. He had to bear away inland too, lest on the seacoast he come upon some of the colonists gathering shellfish; and inland, not only was the going through the undergrowth difficult, but the hills shut off the least whiff of coolness from the sea.

Soon Dolly gasped for breath, Trug lolled out his tongue, and even Miles found many pretexts to rest. Here amid the moss bubbled a spring, where the children delayed to drink and cool their hands; there lay a muddy pond, covered with white lilies, which Miles, though he wet his feet, strove to get with a long stick; and again and yet again they came on tangles of luscious raspberries, where they paused to eat their fill.

Miles had in his pocket a fourpenny whittle, his dearest possession, with which he stripped a great piece of bark from a birch tree, and, cleaving two sticks, shaped it into a basket, in which to carry away some of the berries "against dinner-time." But the basket proved an incumbrance to the wayfarers, so, before they had wandered another mile, the two children sat down in a pine grove, and ate the berries they had gathered. They tied Trug carefully, a needless precaution, for the old dog, with as burdening a sense of responsibility as Miles himself, had no thought of trotting home and leaving those two foolish little bodies to their own protection.

By the position of the sun Miles judged it past noon, when they came at last to a brook, which he thought might be the upper waters of the stream he was seeking. He waded in first to try its depth; then, in gallant fashion, would have carried Dolly over, but little mistress wished the fun of paddling too. The alders, coming low to the brookside, cast a rippling shadow on the water, and the sandy bottom was firm and cool; so when both children once had waded in, they spent some time in splashing to and fro, while Miles set forth to Dolly how he had caught eels.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen when they climbed out on the farther side of the brook, and passed slowly up the next hillslope. Dolly now found she was tired, so Miles said they might as well build their house there as anywhere. Indeed, halfway up the slope they found a capital spot, where the hill, drawing back on itself, left a little level space, with sparse undergrowth and tall trees, the vanguard of the forest higher up, that cast a good shade.

To be sure, the exposure was northern, but that would make the place cool in summer, Miles set forth its advantages, and when winter came, they could move round and pitch their camp on the other side of the hill, to southward. "But I shouldn't like to dwell in the wood when it snows," protested Dolly. "Let us go back and stay at Plymouth, come winter."

But Miles, in his new independence, laughed at the idea of return, and assured Dolly that he knew how to make her a snug enough house for all weathers. He would drive four forked stakes into the ground; and then, from fork to fork, he would lay four sticks; and across those, other great sticks; and thatch all over with moss. He would drive stakes into the ground to form the sides of the cabin, and wattle them with elder twigs; and it would be just the trimmest little house she ever saw. Yes, he could drive stakes inside and divide the space into rooms, and he would cut windows; the only thing that troubled him was how to build the fireplace, but he guessed he would think that out presently.

About the time that the red rays of the sun slipped under the lower branches of the trees, Miles laid off his doublet and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, ready for work. First, with his heel, he scored in the dirt the lines of his house; they might as well have a big one, he replied to Dolly's delighted exclamations.

The little girl ran about within the four lines and scored for herself the rooms which they would make. "'Twill be such sport, Miles," she chattered. "A keeping room we'll have, and a parlor, and a great hall." Down she set herself on the grass, between the wavering lines that marked the hall, and waited for her brother to build the house over her.

But, though Miles strode jauntily down into the bushes and stayed a great time, when he came back, he bore, not an armful of stakes, but two forked sticks, very gnarled and crooked, and another stick, some five feet long, without a fork. "What have you been doing, Miles?" Dolly greeted him, in a disappointed tone.

"Why, the wood is hard, and my knife is not very big," the boy answered sheepishly, "so perhaps to-night, as 'tis drawing late, I'd best put up just a little shelter. But I'll build the house to-morrow, Dolly."

Then, because the little girl's face fell so grievously, he made haste to amuse her by turning to such work as he could do that evening. With a stone for a hammer, he drove his forked sticks into the ground, and laid the other stick across them; that was the ridgepole, he told Dolly, and now, leaning other boughs against it, he would make a shelter that would be quite sufficient on so hot a night.

But it was wearisome work, haggling off tough boughs with his small whittle, and he was tired with walking, and perhaps, he reasoned, as it was drawing on to sunset, he were best not leave Dolly alone by herself and go down into the dim thickets. So, after he had cut enough branches to go a third along one side of his ridgepole, he said vaguely that maybe he would get some more before dark, and so sat down close by Dolly.

In the west the sun had already sunk, and little pink clouds were drifting through the sky; the afterglow still lingered on the open land of the valley along the stream; but in the woods, as Miles glanced over his shoulder, the grim shadows lurked. It was awesomely silent too, till, on a sudden, a bird began warbling, and presently, fluttering near, perched on a branch above the children, where he trilled lustily.

Miles had some pebbles in his pocket, and, slipping off his garter, he improvised a sling; he would kill the bird for their supper, he told his sister, but Dolly protested; she would rather the pretty bird lived and sang than that she should eat him. So the songster finished his tune and flashed away into the darkening sky, and Miles felt as warm a glow of self-gratulation at giving in to his sister as if he had been quite certain of fetching down the bird with his sling.

"But we've naught for our supper now, Dolly," he sighed presently. "To-morrow, though, I'll find my way to the shore and take us some clams, and, in any case, we'll gather plenty of berries when it's daylight. And you do not mind going supperless now?"

"N--no," Dolly assented faintly; since the twilight came on them, she had grown very quiet.

"I wish Ned Lister could 'a' slipped away with us," Miles resumed. "If he were here with his fowling piece and his fishing line, he'd take us all the victuals we'd want. And he'd be good company, too."

Then they sat in silence a time, very close to each other, with the dog at their feet. Over in the west the bright stars twinkled through the last waning flecks of the sunset glow, and somewhere in the dark the frogs were piping. "Miles," whispered Dolly, "aren't you lonely?"

"To be sure not," he answered stoutly.

"Do you not think--perhaps we could walk back home? I'm not weary now."

"I've come hither to stay," Miles said crossly; "you can run back if you will; no one will flog you."

"You know I cannot go alone," whimpered Dolly. "And maybe there are Indians and lions will get us. Hark!"

Miles sat erect and listened, every nerve tense, but he heard only the snap of a branch, yonder among the black trees. "It was naught, Dolly," he said more kindly, "and you needn't fear; I can take care of you. Come, let's lie down in our shelter, and to-morrow in the daylight we'll build our house."

They crept in behind the screen of branches slowly, for Dolly had hold on Miles's hand and would not let go; but at last they were settled, side by side, Dolly next the leaning roof, and Trug close against Miles. "The leaves tickle my nose," protested the little girl, "and there are humps in the ground, and I'm sure that bugs will crawl into my ears." With a movement that quite disarranged her companions, she sat up and tied her apron over her head; then all three lay down once more. "It's--it's fearsome still," Dolly whispered once, and then no further words passed between them.

But, although he was silent, Miles lay long awake; his body might be weary, but his brain was very busy with what had befallen him in the last two days, and with the unknown happenings that were yet before him. When he forgot the strangeness of the place and fell asleep at last, he dreamed of berry patches and ponds full of lilies, and the fine, great house he meant to build next day.

Somewhere sounded a bewildering crash, as if a thousand cartloads of stone were emptied right beside him. Miles sat up, wondering at the sound, wondering where he was, why his face felt wet, why Dolly clung sobbing to him. A blinding light for an instant tore across the sky, and showed the trees about him twisting in an awesome manner; then darkness closed in again, and, through it, deafened the appalling crash of thunder.

"Don't be frightened, Dolly, don't be frightened," stammered Miles, clutching his sister; he could feel Trug, with his whole great body a-tremble, crowding against his knee, and, through Dolly's terrified sobs, heard the beast whine.

A second flash, that seemed to rip the sky, lit up the black woods, and, upon the roar that followed, sounded the rush of downpouring rain. As if in bucketsful, the water broke through the frail little shelter; the ground beneath the children grew sodden, and their faces tingled under the smiting of the raindrops. "Come away, in among the trees," cried Miles, through the sough of the rain, and dragged Dolly to her feet.

"Back to Plymouth, oh, let us go back to Plymouth," she wailed.

Without reply, Miles gripped her wrist and stumbled up the hillside, where he remembered the thicker growth of trees began. Bushes tore his clothes and buffeted his dripping face; rain blinded him; the flash of the lightning dazzled out just long enough to show how unfriendly trunks beset him, then flared away and left him, half stunned by the thunder that followed, to bruise himself against their harsh bark.

Still, blinded and beaten and breathless, he fought his way onward and at his side haled Dolly, dumb with the bewilderment of the storm. He had forgotten whither he hoped to go; he knew only that there was about him a lurid darkness of overpowering rain and rattling thunder through which he fled away.

It had been several moments since the last clap of thunder, he realized suddenly, and the rain that yet pattered noisily among the leaves did not beat upon him with the old fury. When the thunder growled again, it was from far in the distance, and the space between the flash and the crash was wider. "'Tis near over, Dolly," he spoke subduedly.

The little girl fetched a tremulous, weary sob and made a movement to drop down on the wet turf, but Miles held her arm more firmly. "Nay, we must keep walking till we be dry," he said, in what he tried to make a brave voice. "Maybe we'll come on some warm, sheltered spot," he added, for his poor little companion's comfort.

Holding each other fast by the hand, and with the dog close at their heels, they trudged forward into the black woods. Though lessened in force, the rain still descended in a steady drizzle, and each bush against which they brushed drenched them with an added shower. The ground was so slippery and thick with mud that Miles began to fear they had strayed into a swamp, and, when they stumbled at last upon a thicket of close-growing evergreen, he thought it safest to shelter there till daylight.

Crawling in beneath the low branches that half protected them from the slackening rain, they cuddled close to the dog and to each other. "I'm glad I remembered to save my poppet," Dolly sought to find some comfort. "She'd have been frightened, had we left her alone."

So Dolly dropped off to sleep in Miles's arms, and, lulled by the drip of the rain, he, too, dozed a time, and awoke very chilly and stiff. The branches above him stirred in a gusty wind, and in the mottled sky he could see some faint stars. He crawled out from the thicket and, as he stood up in the freer air, caught the smell of brine in the breeze, and saw that, in the quarter of the heavens whence it came, the night was paling. "'Tis eastward yonder and the sea," he cried, delighted to find, for all his wanderings, he was not hopelessly lost. "Come, Dolly, we'll walk to the shore."

Over hills and through thickets they trudged bravely, in the exhilaration of knowing whither they were headed, and that the dreadful night was past. Slowly the darkness was waning; the sky faded from black to gray, and in the wet woods a bird piped dolefully. Presently a still more welcome sound reached the ears of the travellers,--a long, mournful sough as of breaking waters. "It's waves; we're near the shore," cried Miles, and added a feeble hurrah, whereat Trug, judging all well, leaped and barked.

There was yet a wide stretch of bare uplands to cross, and the morning had broken in earnest before the children clambered down the low bluff to the sandy beach. The tide was out, and the brown rocks, like dead sea beasts, lay uncovered; but Miles and Dolly gave them little heed, for just then, right in their eyes, the sun burst forth in the east, and made a path of yellow ripples on the water.

Forgetting her weariness, Dolly almost ran down the hard sand to the water's edge. "I thought maybe I could see Plymouth round that point on our left," she told Miles disappointedly. "We can walk thither, can we not, along the shore?"

"We'll eat breakfast first," said Miles, who had found a great shell upon the sand. "I'll wade out and dig clams, while you fetch seaweed for the fire."

He had not yet made up his mind about the return to the settlement; to be sure, he was very wet and hungry, but it did not rain every night, and with the thought of Plymouth came the dreadful vision of the public flogging. Besides, now it was daylight, it was good to be his own man and get his own breakfast; so he paddled about bravely, and did not complain, for all the mud and water were cold and the clams few, and his back ached with stooping to dig them. A dozen were enough for two, he concluded, so when he had that number disposed securely in his doublet, which he had twisted into a bag, he splashed shoreward.

Dolly had patiently fetched a mass of slippery seaweed, and, while he drew on his shoes and stockings, she arranged stones with the clams on top, and the seaweed all about them.

"And now I'll light the fire," Miles said soberly, as he rose up and stamped his feet in his wet shoes. Taking a smooth stone, he knelt over the seaweed, and, striking the stone with his whittle, sought to get a spark. But it seemed not a proper flint, for though he struck and struck, no spark came, and Dolly, cold and hungry, grew impatient, whereat Miles rebuked her sternly: "'Tis like a girl. I'm doing the best I can. Hush, will you, Dolly?"

Then he forgot his petty wrangling, for, at a growl from Trug, he looked to the bluff, and there, between him and the safe inland forest, he saw a little group of people coming toward him. The look on his face made Dolly, who knelt opposite him, glance back over her shoulder. "Oh, Miles," she gasped, "'tis the savages come for us!"

Miles stood up and held Dolly close to him with one arm, while he grasped Trug's collar with the other hand. "They're all friendly, Dolly, all friendly," he repeated, and wondered that his voice was so dry and faint.

A little up the sand the Indians stopped; several who kept to the rear were squaws, with hoes of clam-shell and baskets, but at the front were two warriors, who now came noiselessly down the beach. "Quiet, Trug," Miles said, stoutly as he could, and, as the savages drew near, greeted them boldly with the Indian salutation he had learnt of Squanto: "Cowompaum sin; good morrow to you."

They halted close to him, though evidently a bit uncertain as to the snarling Trug; they spoke, but he could make out no word of their rapid utterance. "I'm a friend," he repeated, hopeless of getting any good of his little store of Indian words, almost too alarmed even to recall them. "I come from Plymouth,--" he pointed up the shore where the settlement lay,--"and I want to go back thither."

He made a movement as if to start up the shore, when one of the Indians laid a hand on his arm and pointed southward. Miles shook his head, while dumb terror griped his heart; these were none of King Massasoit's friendly Indians, but people from the Cape, such as had fought the Englishmen in the winter. "Let me go home," he repeated unsteadily.

But without heeding him one loosed his arm from about Dolly's waist. Thereat Trug, with his hair a-bristle, gathered himself to spring, and the other warrior gripped the club he carried in his hand. "You shan't kill my dog!" screamed Miles, seizing Trug's collar to hold him back; and at that the savage, taking Dolly from beside him, lifted her in his arms.

The other Indian would have picked up Miles, but he dodged his hand, and, dragging Trug with him, ran up alongside the warrior who held Dolly. The little girl lay perfectly quiet, her eyes round with terror, and her lips trembling. "Don't be afraid, Dolly," quavered Miles, in what he tried to make a stout voice, "no matter where they take us. They shan't hurt you; Trug and I won't let them hurt you."