"What is it? Do you hear anything, Sime?"

"Don't you, Charley?"

Clancy sets himself to listen, but at first hears nothing, save the usual sounds of the forest, of which it is now full. A spring night, a sultry one, the tree-crickets are in shrillest cry, the owls and goatsuckers joining in the chorus.

But in the midst of its continuous strain there is surely a sound, not animal, but human? Surely the voice of a man?

After a time, Clancy can distinguish it.

One is talking, in tone not loud, but with an accent which appears to be that of boasting or triumph. And the voice is not like an Indian's, while exclamations, at intervals uttered, are certainly such as could only proceed from the lips of a white man.

All this is strange, and causes astonishment to the travellers--to Clancy something more. But before he has time to reflect upon, or form conjectures about it, he hears that which compels him to cast aside every restraint of prudence; and springing forward, he signals the others to follow him.

They do, without a word; and in less than twenty seconds' time, they have entered the shadowed circle, and surrounded the group at which they have been so long gazing.

Only three figures after all! A man, a horse, with what may be woman, but looks less like one living than dead!

The man, Indian to all appearance, thus taken by surprise, plucks the pipe from between his teeth. It is struck out of his hand, the sparks flying from it, as Woodley on one side and Heywood the other, clutching, drag him toward the light.

When the moon shines on it, they behold a face which both have seen before.

Under its coating of charcoal and chalk they might not recognise it, but for the man making himself known by speech, which secures his identification. For he, too, sees a familiar face, that of Simeon Woodley; and under the impression he is himself recognised, mechanically p.r.o.nounces the backwoodsman's name.

"Bill Bosley!" shouts the astonished Sime, "Good Lord! Painted Injun!

What's this for? Some devil's doings ye're arter as ye allers war.

Explain it, Bill! Tell the truth 'ithout preevaricashun. Ef ye lie, I'll split your thrapple like I wud a water-millyun."

"Sime Woodley! Ned Heywood! Joe Harkness!" gaspingly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es the man, as in turn the three faces appear before him. "G.o.d Almighty!

what's it mean?"

"We'll answer that when we've heern _your_ story. Quick, tell it."

"I can't; your chokin' me. For G.o.d's sake, Heywood, take your hand off my throat. O Sime! sure you don't intend killin' me?--ye won't, ye won't."

"That depends--"

"But I aint to blame. Afore heaven, I swear I aint. You know that, Harkness? You heard me protest against their ugly doin's more than once. In this business, now, I'm only actin' under the captin's order.

He sent me 'long with the lootenant to take care of--"

"The lieutenant!" interrupts Clancy. "What name?"

"Phil Quantrell, we call him; though I guess he's got another--"

"Where is he?" inquires Clancy, tortured with a terrible suspicion.

"He went t'other side the tree, takin' the young lady along."

At that moment comes a cry from behind the oak--a woman's voice calling "Help! help!"

Clancy stays not to hear more, but rushes off with the air of a man struck with sudden phrenzy!

On turning the trunk, he sees other forms, a horse with man mounted, a woman before him he endeavours to restrain, who, struggling, thirsts for succour.

It is nigh, though near being too late. But for a fortunate circ.u.mstance, it would be. The horse, headed towards the forest, is urged in that direction. But, frayed by the conflict on his back, he refuses to advance; instead, jibbing and rearing, he returns under the tree.

Clancy, with rifle raised, is about to shoot the animal down. But at thought of danger to her calling "help!" he lowers his piece; and rushing in, lays hold of the bridle-rein. This instantly let go, to receive in his arms the woman, released from the ruffian's grasp, who would otherwise fall heavily to the earth.

The horse, disembarra.s.sed, now obeying the rein, shoots out from under the oak, and headed across the moonlit belt makes straight for the timber beyond.

In the struggle Clancy has let go his gun, and now vainly gropes for it in the darkness. But two others are behind, with barrels that bear upon the retreating horseman. In an instant all would be over with him, but for Clancy himself; who, rushing between, strikes up the muzzles, crying:--

"Don't shoot, Sime! Hold your fire, Heywood! His life belongs to me!"

Strange forbearance; to the backwoodsmen, incomprehensible! But they obey; and again Richard Darke escapes chastis.e.m.e.nt for two great crimes he intended, but by good fortune failed to accomplish.

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

AN OATH TO BE KEPT.

No pen could portray the feelings of Helen Armstrong, on recognising her rescuer. Charles Clancy alive! Is she dreaming? Or is it indeed he whose arms are around, folding her in firm but tender embrace? Under the moonbeams, that seem to have suddenly become brighter, she beholds the manly form and n.o.ble features of him she believed dead, his cheeks showing the hue of health, his eyes late glaring in angry excitement, now glowing with the softer light of love. Yes: it is indeed her lover long mourned, living, breathing, beautiful as ever!

She asks not if he be still true, that doubt has been long since dissipated. It needs not his presence there, nor what he has just done, to rea.s.sure her.

For a time she asks no questions; neither he. Both are too absorbed with sweet thoughts to care for words. Speech could not heighten their happiness, in the midst of caresses and kisses.

On his side there is no backwardness now; on hers no coyness, no mock modesty. They come together not as at their last interview, timid sweethearts, but lovers emboldened by betrothal. For she knows, that he proposed to her; as he, that her acceptance was sent, and miscarried.

It has reached him nevertheless; he has it upon his person now--both the letter and portrait. About the last are his first words. Drawing it out, and holding it up to the light, he asks playfully:

"Helen; was it meant fo' me?"

"No," she evasively answers, "it was meant for me."

"Oh! the likeness, yes; but the inscript--these pleasant words written underneath?"

"Put it back into; our pocket, Charles. And now tell me all. Am I dreaming? Or is it indeed reality?"

No wonder she should so exclaim. Never was transformation quicker, or more complete. But a few seconds before she was, as it were, in the clutches of the devil; now an angel is by her side, a seraph with soft wings to shelter, and strong arms to protect her. She feels as one, who, long lingering at the door of death, has health suddenly and miraculously restored, with the prospect of a prolonged and happy life.

Clancy replies, by again flinging his arms around, and rapturously kissing her: perhaps thinking it the best answer he can give. If that be not reality, what is?

Jessie has now joined them, and after exchanged congratulations, there succeed mutual inquiries and explanations. Clancy has commenced giving a brief account of what has occurred to himself, when he is interrupted by a rough, but kindly voice; that of Sime, saying:--

"Ye kin tell them all that at some other time, Charley; thar aint a minnit to be throwed away now." Then drawing Clancy aside, speaking so as not to be heard by the others. "Thar's danger in dallyin' hyar.

I've jest been puttin' thet jail bird, Bosley, through a bit o'

catechism; an' from what he's told me the sooner we git out o' hyar the better. Who d'ye spose is at the bottom o' all this? I needn't ask ye; ye're boun to guess. I kin see the ugly brute's name bulgin' out yur cheeks."

"Borla.s.se!"