A great jabbering was kept up in the outer room for a while; but the warriors seemed to be satisfied, as they soon left, and the man and the girl came to his couch.
After a little conversation, in which Wilder informed his friends that he had overheard their plan for saving his life, and thanked them for their successful efforts, the old Indian sent away the girl, and called in the negro. An examination of Wilder’s wounds was then made, and the old man, to his great astonishment, set the broken limb in very good style. His leg was properly bandaged, his bruises were attended to, and he soon felt quite comfortable. His situation was so much better than it had been at night, when he was lying on the ground alone, in pain, and in expectation of death at the hands of merciless savages, that he felt that he could desire nothing more, except the company of the beautiful Indian girl.
She soon came, and another came with her. The room was so dark that Wilder could not see her face or that of her companion; but he was sure that the latter was a woman.
“Perhaps he is sleeping, and we had better not disturb him,” said Dove-eye, as she came in.
“Oh no! I must see him and speak to him.”
Surely Wilder knew that voice. There was no mistaking its low, but clear and melodious tones.
“Flora! Miss Robinette!” he exclaimed. “Can it be you?”
“And who are you, sir? Is it Mr. Wilder?”
“It is what is left of him.”
“You are badly wounded. Perhaps it was in trying to assist me that you were injured. Let me have some light, Dove-eye. I must see him.”