She crept to the door of the wigwam and looked out—could see nothing of the fiendish old woman, and stepped to the outer side. But she had hardly passed the threshold before her grim guardian presented herself, and whirling her tomahawk, demanded her purpose.
"I was simply taking the fresh air," replied Olive, to throw her off her guard.
"Then let her lift the skins of the wigwam. To walk from it, will be to walk into her grave."
It would have been useless to attempt to either resist or argue, and the fair prisoner sauntered back, baffled for the time, but without having her purpose changed in the least. She would wait until night came, and then make another effort for freedom, even if she died in doing it. But could she escape she might release her lover, and together they could fly to safety and happiness.
The hours passed—how long and bitter to her, and night came at length. She lay upon the floor of the wigwam with the curtain slightly raised, peering out at the other, and listening, as she had never done before, to every sound. At length she became convinced that the dreadful old crone had gone to rest, and wrapping her garments closely around her, she stepped forth to the long coveted freedom—the blessed boon she had never had the least idea of before. Her heart beat with lightning-like rapidity—she seemed to tread upon air! Then a heavy hand was laid upon her, she was hurled backward, and a croaking, angry voice breathed in her ears:
"The pale-face squaw would run away, and must die!"
"Mercy."
"Did her race show any mercy to mine? Did they spare a single one? My brain is mad with blood. Every thing is red—red!"
Poor Olive! She saw in the semi-light, the flash of a long knife, the gleaming of the terrible eyes, burning with madness—saw the long, skinny arm that was raised to give strength to the blow—exerted all her own. With the power of despair she struggled to her feet, and grappled with the murderess. They fell together. An iron grasp was fastened upon her slender throat, and she knew her last hour had come. But with a mighty effort she tore loose, and disappeared in the darkness down the steep mountain side—fled she knew not whither, with many an arrow whistling over her head.
And soon she would have paused for rest, for she had often fallen and was sorely bruised, had she not fancied that she heard the tread of a swiftly-ridden horse, and believed the false-hearted Indian was upon her track, or at least soon would be. Nerved by this, she pressed onward, deeper and deeper into the fastness of the forest, tumbling over rocks, tearing her dress and soft flesh upon the sharp thorns, creeping among the tangled roots, with the face scratched by the low-growing branches, and her feet cut, and numbed, and bleeding. Onward till she could do no more, and sunk down as if ready to die.