CHAPTER XVII.
VIRGINIA’S ESCAPE.
Alone, a helpless captive in the hands of the dreaded red-men, Virginia felt that her situation was indeed a terrible one. Then, too, she had seen her lover fall helpless at her feet, struck down by the fatal shot of the ambushed foe. What his fate had been, even if he had not been killed outright by the ball that tore him from her arms and laid him prostrate on the earth, it was not difficult to guess. The red warriors rarely spared a fallen foe, and, in imagination, she saw the fair-haired scalp of the man she loved so well, dangling at the girdle of some brawny Indian chief.
With such thoughts as these passing rapidly through her mind, the terror of her situation was doubly increased.
On a rude bench that stood in a corner of the cabin, Virginia sat motionless as a statue, and wept many a bitter tear.
What her fate was to be, she understood only too well. A girl reared on the border, she understood the customs of the savages that claimed the valley of the Ohio as their own. And over her soul crept a sickening fear when she thought of the life that was in store for her, a slave to some Indian brave.
There was little chance of rescue. A miracle alone could save her.
A low knock at the door roused her from her abstraction.
How long she remained in the cabin she could not tell, but she knew that some hours must have passed away.
The cabin door opened slowly, and a man dressed in frontier fashion entered, cautiously.