“Frank Anderson,” said Samson in a low voice, holding out his hand, “I always set my face against your coming here, for I didn’t think you were in earnest, my boy; and now—now—if it’s to come to that—” and he pointed to the spears, his voice shaking a little the while, “I should like to make friends first, though I have gone on against you. Frank Anderson, I beg your pardon!”
The young man groaned, as he took the proffered hand, and then in the same low voice he whispered—
“But Mary, when did she go? Which way?”
“Heaven forgive me,” exclaimed the wretched father, “and I’d forgotten her till she showed me my duty,” and he nodded towards his trembling wife. “She took the pail and went to the cows, half—three-quarters of an hour ago.”
“But we must go to her,” whispered the young man.
“Then you’ll have to go with your skin as full of spears as a porkypine’s back, master,” said Tom, who had crept closer to them. “There; hark at that!” he exclaimed, as a burst of yells arose. “There’s a good two hundred of the black devils dancing about.”
“It would be madness to go,” said Samson, “and like sacrificing three more lives; but she may have hid herself, and escaped.”
The young man shuddered, and then raised his rifle, for a spear came crashing through the window, but happily without striking any one.
“Here,” said Samson, rousing up, “lend a hand?” and with the help of those present, he half carried his wife and two children up a short ladder to a roughly-formed loft, full of wool fleeces, and formed in the low-pitched roof.
“There, creep under them,” he cried, “and first pull up the ladder. Now hide yourselves there, you’ll be safe for the present.”