Sign of life there was none; the current of the narrow stream ran like smooth oil; nor was its motion visible where it wound between soft, black banks of depthless swamp through immemorial shadows.

The Mohican’s voice came to me, low in the silence, sounding dull and remote; nor did his dreaming eyes move in their vague intensity.

“This is the land of Amochol,” he said. “Here, through these viewless shades, his sway begins, as this stream begins, whose source is darkness and whose current moves slowly like thick blood. Here is the haunt of witch and sorcerer — of the hag Catrine, of the Wyoming Fiend, of Amochol — of Amochol! Here run the Andastes, hunting through the dusk like wolves and foxes — running, smelling, listening, ever hunting.