Harold also was strongly convinced that the guns were from his uncle, but he knew that this was only conjectural, and therefore he kindly remarked in the hearing of the others.
"You have no certain reason, Robert, to believe that those guns are from your father. But suppose that they are, then another thing is true, he is in a vessel, for boats do not usually carry guns. They were fired too before the storm came on; therefore they are not signals of distress, and also they appear to have come from the river. Now, if the person who fired them is in a vessel, and in the river, what is there to fear? He cannot get away tonight, and he cannot probably be hurt by the storm. Let us be quiet until morning, and then go out to see who it is."
These thoughts were very comforting. Mary and Frank ceased their weeping, and united in the conversation. They all huddled together in the middle of the tent. For hours the wind roared and howled with great fury, but their tent was protected by the grand wall of forest trees around, and also by the picket enclosure; and though the wind made the canvas flutter, it could neither crush it down nor lift it from above them. Nor did the rain which poured in torrents, and was driven with great violence across the prairie, give them any particular inconvenience; it was readily shed by the several thicknesses of canvas overhead, and carried off by the drainage round the tent.
In the course of an hour, Mary and Frank fell asleep upon the sofa, and the others took such naps as they could obtain, while sitting in their chairs, and listening to a roar of winds so loud, that if twenty cannons had been fired at the river they could scarcely have been heard.
About midnight the rain ceased, and the wind began sensibly to abate. Puff after puff, and roar after roar, still succeeded each other through the forest; but the fury of the storm was over. An hour before day, Harold shook Robert by the shoulder, and said, "I think we can start now. Come and see."
The sky and woods were pitchy dark, little pools of water covered the ground, and the prairie was rough with huge branches torn from the trees, and conveyed to a distance. These were obstacles and inconveniences, but not impediments; and as the wind had so far lulled that it was possible for a torch to live, Robert decided to make a trial. He waked Mary and Sam, and announcing his intention, said to them:
"We wish to reach the old encampment by the time there is light enough to see over the river. If possible, we will return by eight o'clock, and let you know all. If we are absent longer than that, you may conclude that we have found something to do; and in that case, you had better follow us. We shall, of course, be somewhere on the river; but as we ourselves do not know where, you had better go direct to Duck Point, from which you can see almost all the way to our old spring. Let me have a piece of white cloth, sister; I will, if necessary, set up a signal for you on the beach, to tell you where we are."
Mary was exceedingly unwilling to have them depart. The darkness looked horrible; their blind path must now be still more obscured by prostrate trees and fallen branches; and if they succeeded in reaching the intended place, they might be called to engage in she knew not what dangerous enterprise upon water as boisterous as the sea. Quelling her anxieties, however, in view of the necessities of the case, she said:
"Go, but do take care of yourselves. Remember that you two are the only protectors, except Sam, for Frank and me."
The boys promised to run no unnecessary risks, and to return if possible by the appointed hour. Taking their guns, the spy-glass, and a bundle of rich splints of lightwood, they set out. Mary watched their figures gradually diminishing under the illuminated arches of the forest. She noticed the dark shadows of the trees turning upon their bases as pivots, when the torch passed, until they all pointed towards the tent. Then the light began to be intercepted; it was seen by fitful glares; it ceased to be seen at all; its course was marked only by a faint reflection from the tree-tops, or from the misty air; finally every trace of the torch and of its reflection was lost to sight, and Mary returned, with a sigh and a prayer, to her seat upon the sofa.