“Woman—Caroline—Lady Granby! speak to me.” The words died on Murray’s lips; he remained with his grasp still fixed on her arm, and his eyes bent on her face, speechless as marble.
A wild, beautiful expression of joy shot over Catharine Montour’s face; her heart leaped to the sound of her own name, and she started as if to fling herself upon his bosom. The impulse was but for an instant; her hand had quivered down to her side, but while his eyes were fixed on her face, it became calm and tranquil as a child’s. She released herself gently from his grasp and sat down.
“Grenville Murray,” she said, in a clear, steady voice; “for more than twenty years we have been dead to each other; do not disturb the ashes of the past. My child—my first-born child is in danger on that island. Help me to save her, and then let us part again forever and ever!”
The words were yet on her lips when a bullet whistled from the shore, and cut away the ruby crest of the serpent which lay upon her temple.
She fell forward at Murray’s feet, stunned, but not otherwise injured. A moment, and she lifted her head.
“Who was shot? Was he killed?” she muttered, drawing her hand over her eyes, and striving to sit upright.
“The gentleman is safe, mother,” said Tahmeroo, “and I—you hear me speak?—and I am well.”
“Bless you, my brave girl! Grenville Murray, why are we here? There is death all around us! On, on!”
Murray had regained his self-command; he took up the oar which Tahmeroo had dropped, and urged the canoe forward with a steadiness that belied his pale face and trembling hands. Bullet after bullet cut along their track before they reached the island; but the distance became greater, and the aim of their pursuers was more uncertain.
They reached the little cove and sprung on shore. But they had scarcely touched the green sward, when the flames rushed up from the burning pile in a bright, lurid sheet of fire, revealing the opposite shore, and the forest far beyond, as if a volcano had burst among the mountains.