No need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen coming across the
river; nor to say, that those on the croup are not Indian women, but
white ones--captives. The reader already knows they are Helen and
Jessie Armstrong.
Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this at the time, they
would not have waited for Heywood, or stood dallying about the duplicity
of Harkness. Instead, they would have rushed right on to the river,
caring little what chances might be against them. Having no suspicion
of its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied by their
squaws, they acted otherwise.
The captives themselves know they are not in charge of Indians. After
hearing that horrid laughter they are no longer in doubt. It came from
the throats of white men: for only such could have understood the
speeches that called it forth.
This discovery affords them no gratification, but the opposite. Instead
of feeling safer in the custody of civilised men, the thought of it but
intensifies their fears. From the red savage, _pur sang_, they might
look for some compassion; from the white one they need not expect a
spark of it.
And neither does; both have alike lost heart and sunk into deepest
dejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more despairing--less
hopeful of happiness beyond.
They are silent now. To exchange speech would only be to tempt a fresh
peal of that diabolical laughter yet ringing in their ears. Therefore,
they do not speak a word--have not since, nor have their captors. They,
too, remain mute, for to converse, and be heard, would necessitate
shouting. The horses are now wading knee-deep, and the water, in
continuous agitation, makes a tumultuous noise; its cold drops dashed
back, clouting against the blankets in which the forms of the captives
are enfolded.
Though silent, these are busy with conjectures. Each has her own about
the man who is beside her. Jessie thinks she is sharing the saddle with
the traitor, Fernand. She trembles at recalling his glances from time
to time cast upon her--ill-understood then, too well now. And now in
his power, soon to be in his arms! Oh, heavens--it is horror.--
Something like this she exclaims, the wild words wrung from her in her
anguish. They are drowned by the surging noise.
Almost at the same instant, Helen gives out an ejaculation. She, too,
is tortured with a terrible suspicion about him whose body touches her
own. She suspects him to be one worse than traitor; is almost sure he
is an assassin!
If so, what will be her fate? Reflecting on it, no wonder she cries out
in agony, appealing to heaven--to God!
Suddenly there is silence, the commotion in the water having ceased.
The hoofs strike upon soft sand, and soon after with firmer rebound from
the bank.
For a length or two the horses strain upward; and again on level ground
are halted, side by side and close together. The man who has charge of
Helen, speaking to the other, says:--
"You'd better go ahead, Bill. I aint sure about the bye-path to the big
tree. I've forgotten where it strikes off. You know, don't you?"
"Yes, lootenant; I guess I kin find where it forks."
No thought of Indians now--nor with Jessie any longer a fear of Fernand.
By his speech, the man addressed as Bill cannot be the half-blood. It
is something almost to reassure her. But for Helen--the other voice!
Though speaking in undertone, and as if with some attempt at disguise,
she is sure of having heard it before; then with distrust, as now with
loathing. She hears it again, commanding:--"Lead on!"