That August afternoon was warm, and the young man, trampling wearily, doggedly along the narrow, winding mountain-road, glanced ahead at every turn in quest of something he was plainly eager to see. at length, he found himself where the road began its devious way down the mountain-side. Along the foot of the mountain stretched a little strip of dense forest, and against the forest flowed a picturesque river. From the far bank rose another wooded mountain, its steep, green slopes mirrored in the clear water.

At sight of the stream the traveler breathed a sigh of relief. But the downward slope looked long, and he turned aside, to the trunk of a fallen tree in the shade of other trees, tom rest. Putting down the heavy satchel that was in his right hand, he took from his left shoulder the long flintrock rifle and the smaller satchel hanging on its barrel. Slipping the gun out of the satchel handle, he leaned the weapon against the log, then found a seat on the log and began to fan himself with his hat.

He had a smooth, pleasant face, with light-brown hair and dark-blue eyes. When standing he was almost six feet tall, and his figure was good. But he was noticeably slim, and his face was thin, indicating that he was not very strong. He was dressed with more than usual neatness for a foot-traveler. Indeed, but for his coat of sunburn he would have been pointed out anywhere as a city-dweller.

The road to the bottom was longer than it looked, and not till several minutes later did he reach the river. There he stood, gazing sometimes at a flatboat tied to the far bank, and sometimes at a cabin on a bench of the mountain beyond, where the ferryman was supposed to live. A blowing-horn hanging from a limb caught his eye.