At a preconcerted signal, out flashed the fire of a hundred rifles, whose sharp crack went reverberating through the forest.
The attacked party, though completely taken by surprise, fought bravely, and it was not until overwhelmed by superior numbers that they slowly retreated, obstinately disputing every foot of the ground.
Iron Hand watched every action of the strange Indian.
“See, with what a desperate vim this fellow strikes!” he exclaimed, as he observed the Indian, heedless of danger, throw himself recklessly upon the foe. “These other rascals fight for plunder only, but he seems to battle for the hatred he bears those rebels. This is my man—I will trust him,” he murmured to himself; “he will be of valuable service to me personally, do I but play well my part.”
At the command of the chief the pursuit was discontinued, and the Tories, jubilant over their success, returned to the cave. The quiet, calm demeanor of the strange Indian was quite a striking contrast to the boisterous hilarity of his companions.
For a long time, the chief topic of conversation among the members of the Tory League, was the fearless intrepidity of their new comrade, who bore with unblushing indifference the plaudits thus bestowed upon him.
Imogene was awakened from the swoon into which she had fallen after the termination of her interview with Iron Hand, by the touch of some cold object.
As she raised herself slowly, she just succeeded in catching a view of the figure of a man—an Indian, she knew by his peculiar dress and the feathers that adorned his head—as he glided swiftly from the apartment.
“Who could this mysterious visitor be?” she asked herself.