"Have you—oh—have you?" she asked. "Who is that?" and she pointed to the child in my arms.
"Where's Hamilton? Where's your father?" I demanded, trembling from exhaustion and all undone.
"Mr. Hamilton is in his tent priming a gun. Father is watching the river. And oh, Rufus! is it really so?" she cried, catching, sight of Miriam's stooped, ragged figure. Then she darted past me. Both her arms encircled Miriam, and the two began weeping on each other's shoulders after the fashion of women.
I heard a cough inside Hamilton's tent. Going forward, I lifted the canvas flap and found Eric sitting gloomily on a pile of robes.
"Eric," I cried, in as steady a voice as I command, which indeed, was shaking sadly, and I held the child back that Hamilton might not see, "Eric, old man, I think at last we've run the knaves down."
"Hullo!" he exclaimed with a start, not knowing what I had said. "Are you men back? Did you find out anything?"
"Why—yes," said I: "we found this," and I signalled Frances to bring Miriam.
This was no way to prepare a man for a shock that might unhinge reason; but my mind had become a vacuum and the warm breath of the child nestling about my neck brought a mist before my eyes.
"What did you say you had found?" asked Hamilton, looking up from his gun to the tent-way; for the morning light already smote through the dark.
"This," I said, lifting the canvas a second time and drawing Miriam forward.