This time, being on the alert, his senses were not deceived.
Although he had often heard admirable imitations of this bird, and
was no mean adept himself in raising its notes, he felt satisfied
that Hurry, to whose efforts in that way he had attended, could
never so completely and closely follow nature. He determined,
therefore, to disregard that cry, and to wait for one less perfect
and nearer at hand.
Deerslayer had hardly come to this determination, when the profound
stillness of night and solitude was broken by a cry so startling,
as to drive all recollection of the more melancholy call of the
loon from the listener's mind. It was a shriek of agony, that came
either from one of the female sex, or from a boy so young as not yet
to have attained a manly voice. This appeal could not be mistaken.
Heart rending terror- if not writhing agony- was in the sounds, and
the anguish that had awakened them was as sudden as it was fearful.
The young man released his hold of the rush, and dashed his paddle
into the water; to do, he knew not what- to steer, he knew not
whither. A very few moments, however, removed his indecision. The
breaking of branches, the cracking of dried sticks, and the fall
of feet were distinctly audible; the sounds appearing to approach
the water though in a direction that led diagonally towards the
shore, and a little farther north than the spot that Deerslayer
had been ordered to keep near.
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