He shook his head mournfully.
“And the lady—that beautiful white queen—did you find her at last? I was almost sure that she passed me as I ran towards the river; but you could not believe it. Oh, tell me, did you hear nothing about her or the Indian girl?”
“I saw them both; one is unhurt, the other——”
“The other—not her, not her! Oh, do not tell me that she has come to harm!”
“I found her wounded—not mortally, I hope and believe; but she was forced from me while insensible, and carried away by the savages; but God is merciful, my child, and she has learned to trust in Him.”
Mary had turned her face on the pillow, and was weeping bitterly.
“Mary, my child, be comforted.”
His voice thrilled her soul with its sorrowful tenderness.
“My child! Oh, that is a sweet, holy word. She called me her child in the same way, and my heart trembled within me, as it does now.”
The missionary stretched forth his arms, as if to gather the gentle girl to his bosom, but checked himself with an effort that shook his whole frame, and seating himself by the bed, began to talk hopefully to her.