"Father, I was about to seek you," said she. "They tell me that you have heard bad news."

"Bad enough, girl! The red-skins are going to attack us."

"Is there no hope?"

"Hope, for what?"

"That this bloodshed may be avoided. Will they not listen to an offer of reconciliation?"

"And who would dare to make it?"

"Dare, father! I do not understand you. It is the duty of those who have done wrong to contrive by concession to atone for it, and, if possible, to make peace."

"But who has done wrong?"

Alice did not answer in words, but the look she bestowed upon her father was eloquence itself.

"I see what you're thinking about, my girl. It's very hard that inside of my own home I should meet with reproaches. Isn't it enough for me to have to bear the sneers and taunts of others, without being forced to listen to them from you?"

"Father!"

"Oh, yes; now you'll try to say you didn't mean to reproach me; but it won't do. I see it in your face; and, there, your eyes are full of tears. That's the way with you girls, when you can't use your tongues, you have always a stock of tears ready. But blubbering won't mend this matter; it's got to be settled with blows."

"Oh, father! can nothing be done?"

"Nothing, but prepare for the worst. Now, girl, stop your crying, or you'll drive me stark mad. I'll tell you what it is, I'm just in that sort of state that if I don't do something, I shall go clean out of my mind. What with the worrying work here, and the grumbling discontent of a few paltry hounds about the settlement, I don't know how I keep my senses about me."

The angry mood into which he had worked himself was, however, no novelty to his daughter. She had of late seen it too often, and sorrowfully noted the change.

Still, she was a brave girl, and knowing she had a duty to perform, she did it fearlessly.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, apologisingly, "I did not mean to reproach you. If my looks betrayed my thoughts, I cannot help them, much as I may regret giving you pain. What I wanted to say was, that if there is any honourable way to avoid this bloodshed, it should be tried. There is no disgrace in acknowledging a fault."

"Who has committed one?"

"You know wrongs have been done by white people against the Indians, not alone now, but ever since the two races have been brought together. We are no better than others; but we can avoid their errors by trying to remedy the grievances they complain of."

Old Rody stamped the floor with rage; his daughter's remarks made him wince. Conscience, which he deemed asleep, was at work, and upon the tongue of his own child had found utterance.

"Begone, girl!" he cried, "before I forget that you are my own flesh and blood. You insult me beyond endurance. I will manage my affairs my own way, without impediment from you. Ay, not only my own affairs, but the affairs of all here. I will have blind obedience; I demand it, and will exact it. Begone!"

His daughter looked him boldly in the face.

"Be it so, father," she answered; "I have done my duty--will always do it. Think, however, before it is too late, that to your conduct in this matter, the groans of widows and the sighs of orphans may be laid. The happiness or misery of many rests upon your single word. It is an awful risk--reflect upon it, dear father, reflect!"

Her proud bearing gave place to tears. Her womanly heart was full to overflowing. It conquered her spirit for a time; and as she parted from her father's presence, she felt that the last hope of peace had vanished.

"By the eternal powers!" cried he, "this will prove too much for me. It must come to an end!"

As Rody uttered these words, he drew from his pocket a flask and applied it to his lips.

It was a bottle of brandy. It seemed the last friend left him.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

FORCED INTO SERVICE.

After entering the narrow stretch of water, Nelatu, for some time, plied his paddle with vigour.

He then paused to examine the place.

Sedges and cane-brakes grew thickly down to the water's edge.

There appeared no pa.s.sage through them.

Resuming his course, he attentively watched for any sign of habitation, but for a long time without success.

Just as he was turning the head of the canoe again in the direction of the lagoon, an object, floating on the surface, attracted his attention.

It was an oar.

A glance convinced him that it was the fellow of the one he held in his hand.

Re-animated by this a.s.suring proof that he was going in the right direction, he fished it up, and abandoning the more laborious mode of paddling, he adjusted the oars in the rowlocks, and bending to them, made more rapid way.

He kept his eyes turning to right and left, on the lookout for a landing-place, which he now felt a.s.sured could not be far distant.

His scrutiny was at length rewarded.

A few hundred yards from where he had picked up the floating oar, a post was seen sticking up out of the bank.

To this was attached a Manilla rope, the broken strands of which showed it to be the other portion of that fastened to the stern of the canoe.

The clue was found.

Those he had dimly seen in the morning, were doubtless close at hand.

He ran the craft in sh.o.r.e, fastened it securely to the post, and landed.

With cautious steps he followed the footprints now seen in the soft mud of the bank.

They led to a sheltered spot, upon which a rude hut had been erected.

The sound of a man's voice arrested his steps.

"He, he! I 'clare it makes dis chile larf, to t'ink about de trubble dat's brewing for dem. De long time am comin' round at last. I'se bin a waitin' for it, but it am comin' now."