Helen. Gone! Well.—And Elliston—what said he?
Mess. I brought this note of yours back, Miss Helen. Father Elliston was gone. Here has been an Indian killed on Sandy Hill this evening, Alaska's own son as it turns out, and such a hubbub as they are making about it you never heard. I met a couple of squaws myself, yelling like mad creatures, and the woods are all alive with them. The priest has gone down to their village to pacify them if it may be,—so I brought the note back, Miss Helen, for there was no one there but a little rascal of an Indian, and I would not trust the worth of a feather with one of them. Was I right?
Helen. Yes. Give it to me. How far is it to the British camp?
Mess. Why, they are just above here at Brandon's Mills they say, that is, the main body. It can't be over three miles, or so.
Helen. Three miles! only three miles of this lovely moonlight road between us.—William McReady, go to that camp for me to-night.
Mess. To the British camp?
Helen. Ay.
Mess. To the British camp! Lord bless you, Miss. I should be shot—I should be shot as true as you are a living woman. I should be shot for a deserter, or, what's worse, I should be hanged for a spy.
Helen. What shall I do!
Mess. And besides, there's Madame Grey will be wanting me by this time. See how the candles dance about the rooms there.