The cloak fell from her shoulders. In the dim twilight he saw that she was a white woman, and that she held a small child in her arms. Instantly releasing her, he stammered:
“My good woman, I beg a thousand pardons. In the gloom I mistook you for a squaw, and, fearing that you might raise an alarm——”
He broke off and recoiled a step, a sharp exclamation upon his lips. The woman had lifted a wan face to his; and by the tremulous light of the dying twilight, he had recognized her.
“Amy!” he gasped.
“Ross!” she whispered hoarsely, leaning against a tree for support and closely hugging the child to her breast.
A short time they stood there without uttering another word, each staring wildly at the other’s shadowy form and features—each hearing the other’s labored breathing. Ross was the first to regain the power of speech.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a strange, altered voice.
“Trying to escape from a bondage worse than death!” she replied in hard, bitter tones in which there was no hint of tears.
“You—you’ve been a prisoner among the Indians?” he inquired in kinder accents.