The steed, foaming and gray with dust, with nostrils dilated and eyes flashing fire, dashed by the guard and halted before the scaffold. The scout leaped from the faithful charger, and springing up the steps seized the executioner’s arm.
“Hold, my pale-face brother!” he cried.
At these words the spectators were struck with amazement, and gazed about them for an explanation. At the expiration of a few moments, four more horsemen arrived. They were dragoons, and with them rode a man lashed to his horse, and behind him, on a white steed, came a female.
The party halted, and awaited War-Cloud’s orders. As Edgar caught sight of the unknown lady, he gave a sudden start, and the color faded from his cheek.
“Can it be she?” he murmured to himself.
He had surmised correctly; it was in truth Imogene Lear. As she approached him their eyes met. The recognition was mutual. The next instant, shedding tears of joy, they were clasped in each other’s arms.
The scout now advanced, and untied the cords that bound the horseman, and ordered him to alight. The prisoner obeyed; he offered no resistance. His head was bowed down upon his breast, and he appeared to be completely crushed in spirit.
With the aid of two of the dragoons, War-Cloud assisted him up on the scaffold, and then quickly removed the muffler that had heretofore concealed the prisoner’s face from view.
“My God!” exclaimed Edgar, starting back. “That countenance—it is he—it is Maurice, my brother!” and reeling, would have fallen, had he not been supported by the scout.
On beholding the face thus exposed to their gaze, the spectators stood aghast.