The girls started up, looking wildly out of the window. A man came up the footpath, bounding towards the house, his clothes dripping wet, and water streaming from his hair.
“It is Edward Clark!” shrieked Jane Derwent, rushing towards the door.
“It is Edward,” whispered Mary, with a throb of exquisite thankfulness.
Mother Derwent only heard footsteps rushing towards her cabin. Planting herself on the hearth, she lifted the rifle to her shoulder, and stood with her face to the door, ready to fire whenever the enemy appeared.
But the door burst open, and while she was tugging at the obstinate trigger, Edward Clark rushed by her, calling out:
“Flee to the east shore, one and all. A horde of savages are making for the river!”
While he spoke, half a dozen more fugitives came rushing up, followed by others, till fifteen or twenty men, too exhausted for swimming, and without other hope, turned at bay, and proceeded to barricade themselves in the cabin.
“You will not let them murder us?” gasped Jane Derwent, clinging to her lover with all the desperation of fear.
The young man strained her to his bosom, pressed a kiss upon her cold lips, and strove to tear himself from her arms; but she clung the more wildly to him in her terror, and he could not free himself.
“Jane,” said a low, calm voice from the inner room, “come and let us stay together. The great God of heaven and earth is above us—He is powerful to save!”