The missionary moved on, buried in thought. Mary followed after, panting for breath, but unwilling to lag behind. At last he noticed that she mounted the hill with pain, and began to reproach himself, tenderly helping her forward. She saw that he grew pale with each advancing step, and that his hand hung nervously as he took hers, in the ascent. Why, she could not think. Surely he did not fear the savages then, after having stood in their midst the night before.
At last they came out upon a pile of rocks that overlooked the encampment. The whole basin, so full of savage life ten hours before, lay empty at their feet; not a human being was in sight; trampled grass, extinguished torches, and torn vines betrayed a scene of silent devastation. In the midst of it all stood Catharine Montour’s lodge, drearily empty. The bear-skin was torn down from the entrance; the rich furs that had lined it were all removed; it was a heap of bare logs, through which the morning winds went whispering—nothing more.
The missionary and Mary Derwent looked wistfully in each other’s faces; a dead feeling of disappointment settled upon them both.
“They are gone,” he said, looking vaguely around; “gone without a sign; we are too late, Mary.”
“It is dreary,” said the deformed, seating herself on the threshold of Catharine’s lodge; “I had so hoped to find the white lady here.”
All at once she shaded her eyes with one hand, looking steadily westward.
“See! see!”
“What, my child?”
Far off, up the banks of the Susquehanna, she saw glimpses of moving crimson and warm russet breaking the green of the forest. The missionary searched the distance, and saw those living masses also.
“It is the whole tribe in motion—another dream vanishing away,” he said, following the train with a look of indescribable sadness. “Let us descend, Mary; this is not God’s time, but it will come.”