A malediction burst from Gabriel Druse’s lips, words sharp and terrible in their intensity. For the first time since they had met the young man blanched. The savage was alive in the giant.
“Speak. Tell all,” Druse said, with hands clenching.
Swiftly the young man told all he had seen, and described how he had run all the way—four miles—from Carillon, arriving before Fleda and her Indian escort.
He had hardly finished his tale, shrinking, as he told it, from the fierceness of his chief, when a voice called from the direction of the house.
“Father—father,” it cried.
A change passed over the old man’s face. It cleared as the face of the sun clears when a cloud drives past and is gone. The transformation was startling. Without further glance at his companion, he moved swiftly towards the house. Once more Fleda’s voice called, and before he could answer they were face to face.
She stood radiant and elate, and seemed not apprehensive of disfavour or reproach. Behind her was Tekewani and his braves.
“You have heard?” she asked reading her father’s face.
“I have heard. Have you no heart?” he answered. “If the Rapids had drowned you!”
She came close to him and ran her fingers through his beard tenderly. “I was not born to be drowned,” she said softly.