"I hope I can, but I am so terribly worn out that I must go very slowly. You said it was the best for you that we should undertake this journey alone, through the woods. What did you mean by saying that?"
"I will tell you some other time," replied the hunter, in great embarrassment. "I done so that I might be alone with you."
Edith looked earnestly at him, as though she would read his very soul. She was about to speak, when the appalling yells of the human bloodhounds sounded so fearfully near, that her very blood seemed to curdle in her veins.
"Where shall we fly?" she asked, looking up imploringly in the face of the hunter.
"Come on as rapidly as you can," he replied, again supporting her.
Great as were the apprehension and terror of Edith, she could but notice the singular conduct of her companion. He kept constantly looking around, not as though he expected danger, but as if searching for something. The cause of this was soon manifest.
"Edith," said he, "it will be full two hours afore there'll be enough darkness to do us any good. Can you stand it till then?"
"I can stand it," she answered, with a sad laugh, "but I can not run it."
"We must either run or be took. Now, my dearest one, you've done enough to kill a dozen common women, and you shouldn't try to do more, and I don't intend to let you."
"But how can—— Oh, Heavenly Father! hear those shouts—but how can you prevent it?"