Although wondering at the path that the stranger was pursuing, yet
Virginia followed him for a short time in silence.
Deeper and deeper into the thicket went the stranger.
Virginia began to fear that he had mistaken the way. She resolved to
speak.
“Have you not made a mistake in the path?” she asked.
“No,” he replied, halting.
“But this is not the road leading to the settlement. We should follow
the trail running parallel with the river--the trail we just left.”
“Yes, I know that that is the _direct_ road,” he answered; “but we are
obliged to make a wide _detour_ here to escape the Shawnees. There is a
large body of them ambushed by the trail a short distance below here.
We are to make a circle to avoid them, and will come upon the trail
again in due time. Do not fear; I will guide you safely. I know these
wilds well. There is not a foot of ground between here and the Ohio
that is not as familiar to me as my own hand. It is many years, though,
since I have traversed these woods, but I’ve a good memory and am not
likely to go astray.”
“I feared that you might have made a mistake in the path, therefore I
spoke,” said Virginia, perfectly satisfied with the stranger’s reasons.
On went the stranger again, and although he had imposed caution on the
girl, he did not seem to use much himself, for he went straight onward
as before, without seeming to fear danger.
For a short time only did the guide continue in a straight path, for
soon he commenced a zigzag course; first to the right, then to the
left, then apparently he retraced the very path that they had come;
then turned abruptly to the right again, went on a little way, then
bent his course to the left.
Virginia was puzzled; she had been able before to tell the way in which
they had been proceeding; but now, after all this turning and twisting,
her brain was bewildered, and she could not guess whether she was going
straight to Point Pleasant or in the opposite direction.
If the design of Benton had been to bother the girl by the abrupt turns
he had made, and to confuse her as to the direction in which they were
bending their steps, he had succeeded admirably.
Virginia followed without a word. She was fully trusting the man who
was guiding her.
“We will soon be at the meeting-place appointed,” said Benton, after an
hour’s weary tramp through the almost trackless wilderness.
“I am so glad,” replied the girl, “for I am getting sadly tired.”
“You will have rest enough, soon,” said Benton. And it was well that
Virginia did not see the dark smile that shone on his features and lit
up his evil eyes.
A few steps further on and the two came to a little glade in the forest.
“This is the place,” said Benton, stopping in the center of the glade.
Virginia looked around.
The dense forest surrounded them.
No sound broke the stillness of the virgin wood.
The quiet of the grave reigned within the forest glade.
“I do not see any one,” said Virginia; and, despite herself, a feeling
of apprehension stole over her.
The quiet of the forest seemed ominous of evil.
“They are near at hand,” said Benton, with a peculiar smile.
For the first time, Virginia saw the evil look in his face. His words,
though apparently harmless, filled her with terror.
“Where are they?” she asked, a heavy weight upon her heart as she spoke.
“Shall I call them?” Benton questioned, surveying the girl with an air
of triumph.
“Yes,” Virginia said, slowly.
With a mocking smile, Benton turned to where a dense clump of
bushes--an outpost of the thicket--had planted itself upon the margin
of the glade.
Virginia watched him with earnest eyes.
A dim presentiment of danger filled her soul.
Danger! yet what that danger was, she could not guess.
Two words came from the lips of the man who had acted as Virginia’s
guide.
Two words that struck a chill of horror to the heart of the girl.
Yet the meaning of those two words she could not understand.
The two words were spoken in the Shawnee tongue.
Then forth from the thicket, in obedience to the summons, came two dark
and stalwart forms.
Life _was_ in the forest, despite the gloom and silence!
One single glance Virginia gave, and then, with a cry of mournful
agony, she fell senseless to the ground.
The shock was too great to bear, and loss of consciousness came like an
earnest friend to drive away the terror that was chilling the heart of
the hapless maid.
* * * * *
And now we will return to the station at Point Pleasant.
The party who had been in search of the girl had returned. They were
to set forth again on the following morrow, to try and discover, if it
were possible, what had been the fate of the General’s daughter.
Treveling himself, bowed down with agony, sought the shelter of his
dwelling.
The old man’s heart was heavy with woe.
The twilight had come. Treveling, busy in thought, had not noticed the
coming darkness, when he was suddenly aroused from his abstraction by
the abrupt entrance of a stranger.
Treveling looked at his visitor in astonishment.
The man was a stranger to him. He was a muscular fellow, habited in the
usual border fashion of deer-skin.
“You are General Treveling?” the stranger asked.
“Yes,” replied the old man, “that is my name.”
“My name is James Benton; I am a stranger in these parts, though some
years ago I resided hereabouts.”
“Your face seems familiar to me,” replied Treveling, with a puzzled
air, “yet I can not remember to have ever known a man who bore the name
you give.”
“Your memory may be at fault,” said the stranger, coldly.
“It is rarely so, but still it may be as you say,” replied the General,
who felt sure that he had seen the stranger’s face before.
“You and I, General, are old acquaintances,” said Benton.
“We are?”
“Yes.”
“It is very strange then that I can not remember your name--I mean,
that it does not seem familiar to me.”
“A man’s face is more easily remembered than his name.”
“That is very true,” replied Treveling. “At what time in the past did I
ever meet you?”
“Do you remember Lewis’ expedition in Dunmore’s time?”
“Yes.”
“When he whipped Corn-planter at the head of the Shawnees, Mingoes and
Wyandots in the Battle of Point Pleasant?”
“Yes,” again replied the old man; “I commanded a division under Lewis
in that fight.”
“No one knows that better than myself,” said the stranger, with a
peculiar smile. “I served under you.”
“Ah, were you in the battle of Point Pleasant?”
“No.”
“How was that?” asked Treveling, in astonishment; “my division was in
the hottest of the fight.”
“I left your command _before_ the battle took place.”
“It is strange that I do not remember of ever hearing your name before,
but your face certainly is familiar. Well, sir, as an old comrade in
arms, I am glad to meet you. You are welcome, sir, to make my house
your home while you remain at the station. I can give you an old
Virginia welcome, though I am afraid that I can not play the part of
the host so well as I ought to, for I am suffering now, sir, under an
affliction that has sorely tried me.” And the old soldier heaved a deep
sigh as he spoke.
“You refer to the loss of your daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is a heavy blow.”
“Ah! none but a father’s heart can feel how heavy such a blow is.
She was my only child, sir; the pride of my old age, and now she is
taken from me. I am but an old and withered oak; the support and love
that bound me to earth is gone, and I care not how soon I receive the
summons that bids me appear before the Great Commander above!” The tone
in which the old man spoke would have touched almost any heart and
made it sympathize with his sorrow. But, the heart of the dark-faced
stranger only thrilled with fierce joy as he listened to the words of
the old man.
“Your only child, I think you said?”
“Yes,” replied Treveling, in wonder, “my only child!”
“How is that? If my memory does not deceive me, in the old time, when I
served under you, you had _two_ daughters.”
“Yes, you are right,” replied Treveling, “but the elder of the two,
my bright-eyed Augusta, strayed into the woods one day and never came
back. She was but a child then; and now the other, my Virginia, she,
too, is gone, and in the self-same manner as her sister. That is what
makes the blow more terrible.”
“You never discovered any traces of the first?”
“No,” Treveling answered, sadly.
“And now no traces of the second?”
“You speak only the cruel truth.”
“Cheer up, General; I bring you news of your second daughter!”
“You do?” cried the old man, eagerly.
“Yes; by chance I discovered something in the forest that revealed to
me her fate.”
“Only give me some clue by which I may find my child and I will go down
on my knees and bless you, sir!” exclaimed the old soldier, excitedly.
“Put on your hat and walk with me a short distance. The moon is bright,
and I will tell you all I have discovered. It is a terrible affair, and
I fear to speak within walls.”
Eagerly Treveling followed Benton from the house.