The child remained where she had been left, sobbing as if her heart would break, and with her face buried in her hands; every bone in her body aching from the violence she had suffered.
“Oh! I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!” she cried, rocking her little body to and fro. “Mother, mother, let me come to you;” and she looked up piteously to the skies.
Gradually, however, the passion of her tears ceased. She had often endured equally brutal treatment before; and she was, in a measure, hardened to it. So her sobs grew less frequent; her thoughts dwelt less on her own sufferings; and she began to recollect Kate.
“I hope she’ll get off,” she cried, jumping up and clapping her hands. “If she only took the right road.”
But scarcely had she spoken, when she reflected that, if his prey wholly escaped, Arrison would return more violently enraged than ever. Experience warned her that, in such a case, he would wreak double vengeance on her. She burst into tears again, in almost speechless terror at the idea.
She could think of nothing in this extremity, but the little prayers her mother had taught her, and which she still murmured nightly before retiring, for lack of others more suited to her years. So she fell on her knees, and, with her hands clasped before her, prayed. But, with the almost infantile words went up earnest heart-petitions, which, more eloquent than the most burning language, reached—who shall doubt it?—the ear of the Father of all.
When Uncle Lawrence reached the hut, an hour or two later, the child, who had heard the approach of the party, was nowhere to be seen; for she had hidden herself in terror in the barn, thinking her persecutor was coming back. But she was not long suffered to remain concealed. Alarmed at the evidences of the debauch, Uncle Lawrence decided to search every spot about; and thus the child was soon discovered. On finding that the intruders were friends of Kate, the poor thing lost her terror, however, and answered their questions eagerly, giving what information she could as to the route the pursuers had taken.
The woodcraft of Uncle Lawrence now came into full play. No Indian could have tracked the refugees more surely than he did. Occasionally, a few moments were lost in hesitancy, but he invariably selected the right crossing at last. Such minutes of delay, however, were almost intolerable, especially to Major Gordon; for, now that the crisis of Kate’s fate approached, he felt the agony of suspense increase tenfold. His incessant cry to himself was, “we shall be too late.” This terrible conviction deepened, as the hours wore on without conducting them to our heroine, or apparently bringing them nearer to the refugees, the bay of whose bloodhound they listened for in vain.
But when the way became more difficult, they began, though as yet ignorant of it, to gain rapidly on Arrison; for, as the path had grown more intricate, the bloodhound had been often at fault, and thus had lost much time.
At last the cry of the hound was heard. What a thrill of joy it sent through Major Gordon’s frame! Every nerve tingled, as he cried,