“Heaven only knows,” replied Dutch. “But quick! Miss Studwick! My wife! Get to their cabin door. Indians, perhaps, from the shore—an attack—we must save them.”
“Even at the expense of our lives,” said the doctor in a low voice. “Have you taken my revolver, or my gun?”
“No, no. Mine are gone, too,” exclaimed Dutch. “Never mind, man, we have our hands: quick!”
They rushed out of the cabin, nearly oversetting Mr Parkley and the naturalist; but, paying no heed, Dutch rushed to the little cabin where his wife was clinging to Bessy Studwick, tried the door to find it fastened, and then with one kick sent it off its hinges.
“Hester!” he cried hoarsely, “Hester!”
For answer she sprang to his neck, and clung there with a sigh of relief,—
“This way,” he said, “into the main cabin. Thank heaven, you are safe.”
“And you,” she moaned, as she felt his strong arms round her; and catching one of his hands convulsively she pressed it upon her heart, while her lips sought for his in vain. “Dutch—Dutch—husband—call me wife once more.”
“I’d give my life to do so, Hester,” he whispered passionately, the unknown peril of the night having broken down the icy barrier that had existed for so long.
“Dutch,” she whispered back, “if truth to you deserves the right to be called your wife, you may speak the word.”