Still Gi-en-gwa-tah was absent with the body of his warriors, which, at Colonel Butler’s request, were active on the frontier of Canada. For the time Queen Esther was supreme in the settlement.
CHAPTER XXX
THE FATHER AND THE DAUGHTER
An Indian war-trail lay along the southern bank of Seneca Lake, scarcely discernible now that the snow was deep, and the trees shivering in the wind; but a man accustomed to the woods might have found sure indications of a path in the deep notches cut in the larger trees at equal distances, and in the broken boughs of hemlock and pine that fell here and there like banners over the buried path.
Through the still woods, and across the glittering snow, came a small party on horseback, toiling onward with a dull, patient movement, which was evidently the result of a long journey and severe weather. The party consisted of three men and a female, so muffled in fur, and shielded from the cold that it was impossible to judge of their condition. The female seemed like a little child, she sat so low on the horse; but the face which looked out from its hood of dark blue silk was more like that of a cherub than a human being.
Two men rode in front; one was evidently a guide, the other led a horse on which a canvas tent was packed, while the third, who seemed master of the party, kept close to the female, and every moment or two caught her horse by the bridle when he sank through the snow, or carefully folded the fur mantle about her form, that she might not be chilled by the keen wind which kept the naked trees above them in a continual wail and shiver, inexpressibly saddening.
“Are you very cold, my child?” inquired the man, looking with tender anxiety into that lovely face.
“Cold—no. This fur mantle is warm. I am not near so chilled as I was yesterday, when the storm overtook us,” she replied.
“Do not be discouraged. This stretch of snow is like a desert, but the guide says we cannot be more than twenty miles from the settlement now, and part of the way is along the shore, where the Indians will have beaten a path. If our horses do not break down under all this heavy toil, we shall be there to-night.”
“My father,” said Mary Derwent, with a slight quiver in her voice, for her heart rose painfully with the question, “who is the lady whom we are searching for? Was it her name you called upon when we seemed perishing in the storm? Why is it that my breath comes quick when I think of her, and that I seem so lonesome when you speak as if she might be dead? Who is she, father—what am I to her?”
“She is your mother, Mary.”