The sun was setting, and the crimson of the sunset deluged the western sky, but the whole horizon was dark with smoke. The report of firearms—the echo of bullets—the shrieks of the dying filled the air with clamor and surged heavily over the waters.
“My husband, my husband!” moaned Tahmeroo.
Catharine never spoke, but watched eagerly for a sight of the island. She scarcely breathed, and her eyes were terrible in their strained gaze.
At that moment a party of Indians appeared on the western shore. They pointed to the canoe with angry gestures. Suddenly they sprang into the water like wild beasts and swam towards the canoe.
“Mother,” cried Tahmeroo, “they are coming here. Queen Esther has sent them to murder us!”
A dozen hands grasped the frail bark, and dusky faces, terrible with war-paint, glared on the two women.
“Back!” exclaimed Catharine, rising up in her canoe and drawing her knife; “dare to disobey me, and you shall be sent from the tribe. Catharine Montour has spoken.”
“The chief commands; Catharine Montour must go on shore.”
“Yes, on the island yonder, but nowhere else. Tell Butler, your white chief, that he will find me there.”
They wrested the knife from her grasp, and sprang into the canoe, offering no harm to either of the two women, but urging the boat to the shore, heedless of cries and expostulations.