Rainbolt halted before the mysterious Solomon Strange, a smile resting
upon his features, a feeling of strange curiosity upon his mind.
“Ho! ho!” laughed Strange, “so we have met again, my lord Oliver--I
mean, Thunderbolt.”
“So it seems, though you were the last person I had expected to meet,
Mr. Strange,” replied the ranger.
“And why so--why so, my lord?”
“I supposed you were on the Pacific coast with old Neptune.”
“So I have been, my lord, and a right merry time had old Nep. and I.”
“I should have thought you would have remained there, Mr. Strange, with
your old friend of the sea,” said Rainbolt, scarcely knowing what to
make of the wild, strange man.
“I would have remained, my lord, but in making my passage over these
hills when I saw you before, I heard a dark secret connected with them,
and that an awful demon rode on the midnight air over the mountain,
striking terror to every heart, every heart, my lord.”
“And who told you so much, Mr. Strange?”
“The wind, the wind, my lord. And the secret I’ll fathom and the demon
I’ll slay. And now, is there aught of the past or future you would wish
to know, my lord?”
“There is much I would like to know, Mr. Strange,” returned the ranger,
“but I can scarcely remember any thing, now.”
“You doubt me, my lord, but hearken: _Your wife lives_, my lord, and
seek you not another! Ay, you start, but it is so. And let me tell you
more, my lord. Since God in his mercy saved you from _death at the
falls_, you need have no fear of your fellow-men. Your shoulders bear
the weight of no crime; you were the victim of a foul plot--the letter
was forged by one Duval Dungarvon in hopes of having you hung, hung, my
lord.”
As the strange man concluded, he turned and strode briskly away,
leaving the ranger seated alone upon his animal, completely dumbfounded
and mystified.
“Who is he? Who is he?” muttered the ranger to himself; “he is a queer,
strange creature, one that knows all about my past, and can even read
my thoughts. Heavens! what if it is--no, it can’t be, but I will
overtake him and make further inquiries.”
Rainbolt spoke to his animal and dashed away in pursuit of Solomon
Strange, but he had gone but a short distance, when a lithe figure
glided suddenly across his path, frightened his animal, causing it
to rear and plunge wildly and throw its rider to the ground, and
unfortunately, in the fall, the ranger’s head struck upon a sharp rock,
completely stunning him.
As the unfortunate man lay thus unconscious, the figure that had
frightened his animal glided from the undergrowth and bent over his
prostrate form. It was the Indian woman, Silver Voice.
As she gazed down into the ranger’s face, a low, convulsive sob burst
from her lips, and then she stooped and kissed his pale lips.
“Oh, my God!” she sobbed, “have I killed him? Oh, Warren, my love, my
darling! Let me hear you say that you forgive. I did not intend to
scare your pony. Oh, Warren! Warren! my wronged and forsaken husband,
are you dead at last? But perhaps it is better that you never lived to
die with shame for her you loved.”
“Florence.”
Silver Voice started up. It was the ranger’s lips that articulated
the name. The voice of the woman seemed to recall him back to
consciousness. He opened his eyes, gazed around him and up into the
face of the woman bending over him. He recognized the face beneath its
dusky paint, and springing up like one delirious, he clasped the form
of the woman in his arms and pressed her to his breast.
“Florence, my wife,” he cried, “have I found you, whom the world thinks
dead?”
She tried to free herself from his embrace, saying:
“Yes, you have found me, Warren, but in disgrace and disguise.”
“Oh, God! Florence, my darling wife, what do you mean?”
“I mean that I am no longer worthy of your love. It will only wound
your heart deeper to tell you. Go, and forget me,” and she turned to
leave, but the ranger detained her.
“Stay, Florence, do not leave me. You are mine. Mine to love, and mine
to cherish. Why do you turn from me?”
“Because I am no longer worthy of your love, but God knows I supposed
you dead.”
“Florence, my wife, I can guess your secret. You are the wife of an
Indian.”
“Oh, God! it is but too true, Warren; for two years I have been the
wife of Allacotah--a noble and kind young chief, in whose veins course
Anglo-Saxon blood by nature, if not by birth.”
The ranger groaned aloud, as though his heart was bursting.
“Then you love your Indian husband, Florence?” he asked.
“No, I only admired him for his kindness and noble principles, such as
no other Indian ever possessed. I became his wife, only for protection
from the insults of _his_ people and the power of _my_ people. But, I
supposed you dead, Warren. Your servant told me he had seen you dashed
to pieces over the Devil’s Tarn. Never, until the night you rescued
Silvia from Black Bear, did I know you lived. And now you know my
secret, my disgrace, Warren; so let me go.”
“No, Florence, you are mine. What you have done makes me love you
all the stronger. It is no disgrace, it is only what a strong, brave
and sensible woman would, and should have done under such trying
circumstances.”
“But, Warren, you love another--you love my sister, Silvia.”
“Only because she _is_ your sister. God knows I never _could_ love
another as I do you, my angel, Florence.”
Before Silver Voice could reply, Echo, the eagle, darted down through
the forest with his warning cry of danger.
Turning quickly around, the ranger and his wife--for such she was, dear
reader--saw a number of savages coming directly toward them.
“Oh, Warren,” the woman cried, “they are savages! fly for your life.
They hate you--they will kill you!”
“Life is nothing more to me, Florence, without you,” replied the
ranger, calmly.
“Then fly, Warren, for my sake.”
The ranger stooped and kissed the sweet, pleading lips of his wife, and
with a feeling of joy that had long been a stranger to his heart, he
turned, and catching his animal that was grazing near, sprung into the
saddle and dashed sharply away.
He at once shaped his course for his cavern home, which he reached
after two hours’ brisk riding.
On entering Silvia’s apartment, what was his surprise to find a young
man seated therein with her! As he entered, Silvia and the stranger
arose to their feet, when the maiden said:
“My friend, Mr. Walter Lyman, Mr. Rainbolt.”