“Murdther—dthe Vargin purtict—here’s soom jist upon us!” cried Devine, at last.
“The rest keep on for life, an’ we’ll look out for these, Tim,” cried Brom. “If we stop a minit, the others ’ll overhaul us—ha!”
Two rifles spoke from an adjacent bend of the bank, and one of the nearest pursuers fell into the river.
“’Twas Rhodan an’ Ben!” shouted Brom and Revel, simultaneously.
“An’ dthe durned apes are b’ated in dthat game; whist—hoora!” yelled the impulsive Irishman.
“Go in, boys! That’s it; they kain’t reach us from shore, while these ahind hev spent thar arrers, an’ ain’t gainin’ a bit. What—hold—turn the canoe in, Goodbrand, towarts the p’int ahead; ef t’others ar’ thar, we’ll manage—”
“No—no!” cried the Indian. “Lose ground if do. We got safe so fur, git safe longer!”
At this moment, Devine ceased his labor, and the canoe lurched, nearly upsetting.
“Ha, Tim, what’s this? Ah, the brave chap’s—”
He ceased speaking, as he grasped the Irishman, who had nearly fallen out. And no wonder. His terrible experiences during the last twenty-four hours, his sufferings as a captive, of which the rest knew little, and his last wound—all had culminated at last, and the man of iron endurance had fainted.