Hopeless of doing good, and shocked to the soul by scenes into which he had been inadvertently thrown Murray turned to the island, hoping to find the missionary there, and unite with him in some project to save the prisoners yet left alive.
As he stood upon the shore, looking vaguely for some means of conveyance, a figure rushed by him, plunged into the water, and swam for life towards the nearest point of land; a half dozen Indians bounded after the man, shrieking and yelling out their disappointment. Directly a young man, black with powder and fierce as a tiger, sprang in among the savages, crying out:
“Have you got him? Give me the scalp—twenty-five guineas to the man who holds his scalp!”
The Indians pointed to the struggling man, now but dimly seen in the smoky twilight; Butler uttered a fierce oath, snatched a rifle from the nearest savage, and, levelling it with deliberate aim, fired—sending an oath forward with the bullet.
The fugitive sank, and his disappearance was greeted with another yell from the savages; but a moment after the head reappeared, and Edward Clark struggled up the banks of the willow cove and went towards the cabin, staggering either from exhaustion or some wound.
“I’ve missed him!” cried Butler, tossing the rifle back to its owner; “but we’ll save that island, and all that’s on it, for our night carouse. There is a little hunchbacked imp that you may have for your own humors, but as for that young rascal, and a girl that we shall find there, I don’t give them up to any one. Now off again; here are more rats creeping to the river.”
Murray had stopped behind a tree as the party came up and rushed away again, yelling and whooping as they went. He was about to throw off his coat, and attempt to spring into the river, and make for the island, when he was startled by footsteps and the quick, heavy breathing of persons in his neighborhood. He peered among the thick trees that towered around him, but could discern no one, though the sound of murmuring voices came distinctly to his ear.
“Thank God!” said a clear, female voice, in accents of deep feeling, “thank God! the horrid work has not commenced here; let us hasten to the fort—we may yet be in time!”
“No, mother, no,” replied a voice of sadder melody; “if there is more bloodshed, it will be done on that little island. If my husband has a part in this, the fair girl whom I have seen gliding among the trees yonder, day by day, waiting his coming, that girl will be his victim; she must have angered him in some way. That beautiful girl was to have been married to-night, mother. Can you think why Butler should seek vengeance on her? Oh, you do not know all! You have not heard him whisper her name in his sleep, sometimes mingling it with endearments, and again with curses. You have not felt his heart beating beneath your arm, and know that it was burning with love, or hate born of love, for another. But why do we stand here? I do not wish her to die, and he shall not take her alive. Let us go and give them warning; is there no boat—nothing that will take us over?”
“Alas, no! what can we do?”