“I have saved thee, John Bonyton,” whispered Hope.
“Tell me all, Hope—what it all means.”
She lifted her head proudly—she fixed her deep, dark eyes upon his, and spoke with a clear voice, that reverberated fearfully upon the silence.
“Hear me, John Bonyton. For years and years I have had but one thought—one desire—one aim—to see thee once more. I will not tell thee of the long, long, weary-years—winters of hoary frost and snow, summers of brief beauty—which went and came, and I saw them not—I saw nothing but thee, John Bonyton. I was moody and silent, but a power was born of solitude, of waiting, of longing, and I could go and come beneath yonder falls. When all slept, I went forth to look upon the moon, because it lighted thee. When the sun came forth, it rejoiced me only that its rays were life and light to thee.
“No one knew I could find my way out of the cave—no one knew of the one burning thought that consumed my whole life. At length I heard thy name; I heard of the approach of the Sacos, led by John Bonyton; I listened to the council of the chiefs, and learned that a beacon-fire was to be kindled above the falls, and then the tribes would descend the bank of the river, and carry death and destruction to the camp of John Bonyton.
“I kindled the beacon-light below the falls!”
She turned away proudly.
“Do not go, Hope. Where will you go?” cried the sagamore.
“Where, but to death and the grave?” she responded, bitterly.
“Hope, my only hope, come to me; all is black, desolate—do not leave me.”