But the gleaming weapon descended harmlessly, and also a cry of wonder broke from his lips as he touched the prostrate form. He felt the flowing drapery of a woman's dress!
"Mercy—mercy!" gasped the latter, in a voice trembling with fear and apprehension.
That voice! How well John knew it! No danger of his confounding it with any other.
"Annie—you here!" he uttered, in a tone of wondering surprise.
"Mercy—have mercy!"
It was evident that the maiden did not recognize his voice. Her terror construed it into that of a deadly foe, thirsting for her life.
"Annie—don't you know me? It is John—John Stevens," and he bent over the prostrate and trembling form, winding his arms tenderly about her, pressing his lips to her cold brow.
It was the first time he had ever ventured so far, but the strange and exciting circumstances must be his excuse. And the course, too, answered a good purpose, for the maiden recognized him then, and with a low cry, flung her arms around his neck, sobbing hysterically.
The trying events, the sudden alarm, the heavy fall and shock, the long chase and agony of feeling herself lying helplessly at the mercy of a vindictive enemy, had proved too much for the usually strong, self-reliant spirit of the girl. She had been a heroine once that night; now she was only a weak and trembling woman.
"John—thank God!" murmured Annie, sobbing from excess of joy. "I thought it was an Indian."