“Did you ever see a girl as pretty as that one was?” he asked.
“Well, no, I can’t say that I ever did,” the lieutenant admitted, with a smile; “and if she is a human I should like to become better acquainted with her.”
“All women have something angelic about them,” said Glyndon, reflectively, and his voice had a strange touch of pathos to it as he spoke—“particularly when they are good and true women. I knew one once—an angel couldn’t have had a better disposition, and she—” His voice broke here. “Well, well, the murdering red-skins sent her to heaven before her time!” he resumed, huskily. “And our little one went with her. Perhaps it was best so—but I’ve often thought I could have stood it better if she had been spared. Do you know, leftenant—it was an odd idea, but when I looked at that bright spirit-angel or whatever it was—up on the cliff yonder—I thought to myself, my little girl, maybe, looks just like that up in heaven.”
The hunter turned away his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his bony hand. His hearers respected his grief for they knew the story of Glyndon’s bereavement.
Percy Cute picked up the javelin and the dart, if they could be called by these names, for they were of singular construction, as we shall see anon.
“Here’s the telegrams,” he said; “they may tell us what the meaning of the diorama was. A piece of birch bark is wrapped around each.”
“I must examine them,” exclaimed Gardiner, taking possession of them. “Freshen up the fire, my boy, so we can have a little more light upon the subject.”
“Better post the sentinels again,” suggested Glyndon. “This deviltry may be only the forerunner of mischief.”
“You are right. It behoves us to use every precaution.”
Two other sentinels were posted, and then the balance of the party returned to the camp-fire in the grove, which the two boys had started into a blaze again.